When is being seen enough? I’d rather be a stranger at times. Anonymity is taken for granted. I love walking around and just being—human. My authentic self. I put on a nice shirt when I feel like I have to put on..
When did I start caring about what the world thought about me?
Let me look in the mirror as I say that. I’d hate myself because I know the answer is longer than I’d like to admit. I put on this armor of nonchalant like its chivalry, like I’m some knight in shining armor but I’m not a knight and even if it was my armor wouldn’t be shiny. It’d be second hand, maybe even third, fourth if you count the clerk. Who knows how many hands have graced this armor but it isn’t shiny anymore. I’m not even a knight.
I used to think I’d rescue a princess too, I swear. We’d rescue each other from the wretchedness of our own tortures mind or environment; maybe mundane job, abusive relationship even. A tortures mind manifests assumedly inside all of our brains. I can hardly imagine a soul without trauma in a form or fashion. Some sort of event you carry with you afflicting you in the worst way possible at the most in opportune times.
Maybe I’m just a tortured mind
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