I look at them in their lives and their worlds, they do their things and they live their days.
I can do that. Look – watch me – I’m doing my things and living my days.
And then I turn sideways, and vanish.
Where did I go? All the fear folded in on me.
It all looked too big, I left. It’s all too familiar, so I run. .I hide from being me.
How am I not like the other people? Reasons crumple under their own weight and all the ideas dissolve into dust
Who thought the simple act of being me would become such a challenge, such a confusion, so fueled by doubt.
When this happens a lot I wonder if I should stop pretending.
Pretending the other people are real, or pretending I am.
I wonder at these words and fragments, at what will come next.
Most people will understand,
But most people aren’t real. Most people don’t exist.