I have a brain buzzing with questions I don’t think I’ll find answers to anytime soon. It’s like a swarm of bees corrupting my mind, probing every fiber of my soul, demanding the truth. Tell me, why is it that it’s easy for people to apologize for petty and trivial things that were well within their control—like being late or not calling you back earlier—but when it comes to sincerely apologizing for grave mistakes, they run away, avoid confrontation, all sense of accountability, and disappear faster than my motivation on a Monday morning?And why, whenever I’m running late for work, do the traffic lights seem to have a personal vendetta against me, all turning red as if in perfect conspiracy? Or why, when a stranger sneezes, I instinctively say “God bless,” but when it’s me sneezing, I get nothing—not even a nod of recognition? Is my sneeze just…unworthy?
Why is it that my true colors are only represented when I’m livid, frustrated, or enraged because you crossed a boundary, and not when I remembered to get you soup on my way back home while you sat curled up all cozy in blankets on the sofa, and a soul-wrenching cold was your only company? Why is it that I want to push myself until I’m barely hanging on, to test my resilience when I can just…not? If life is a journey, does that mean I missed the map? Or am I just destined to keep asking for directions?
Why is it that my therapist knows where you went wrong and hurt my feelings, but for you, it’s “no big deal” and the end of the conversation? Isn’t the pursuit of happiness just another way to keep busy? Why do people make promises they don’t intend to keep and maintain a facade of superficial words with emotions they don’t feel? Why do I feel as if I’m the only one who understands and forgives? Second chance? Granted. Third strike? It’s okay. And if everyone says I’m “unique,” does that mean I’m actually not? How am I supposed to find myself when I never really realized that Iever did lose myself? Should I preserve my sanity by accepting their comforting lie, or keep dissecting this like I’m auditioning to be Sherlock Holmes’ new sidekick? Am I really happy because I knew I would be right, or am I just relieved that now I know you were not who you said you were—there’s really nothing left to lose? I saw a penny on the ground and I put it in my pocket, but I don’t really have any use for it. Negligible utility compared to the blind man sitting on the street, clutching onto the fragmented belongings he’s found on porches, in trash cans, and God knows where. Should I have left it where I found it? Am I a bad person? Isn’t multitasking just a slower way of getting nothing done well? You live and you learn, is what they preach. But when we keep on repeating the same mistakes, how do we ever learn, grow, or evolve? Isn’t organized chaos just a fancy version of “I don’t know what I am doing”? Is it akin to serving raw fish on a silver platter?
Should I follow their rules and laws and adhere to their norms, or should I serve my moral conscience? And seriously, isn’t networking just a polished form of using people? What if they can listen to my thoughts? Am I living a good life, or am I missing out? I should have gotten sunflowers to put in the vase. Do I fear death, or do I fear how I will pass away? Do we live once because we’re alive and breathing every day, and will be gone once and for all, so isn’t it the other way around? Do I call my mom enough? Should I be concerned about the utensils that have been in the sink and the laundry that needs to be folded? Will my best friend ever know I would take a bullet for her without a single doubt in my mind? Is my path predetermined, or am I the one responsible for my shortcomings? Will I ever get to see you again? The girl on the bus had a cute bag. Did I buy groceries? If I am in a room with an alien who has taken me hostage and is forcing me to time travel, will I go back to the past or explore the future? I only have T-20 seconds to decide. When I am sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in my hand next to my husband ten years from now, will I still think about you? About us? Will I ever calm down? Will I ever feel in control, or is that just a myth we tell ourselves, like “you’ve got time” or “it’ll all make sense one day”?
Will I ever pause—really pause—or will I always be racing, chasing, losing my breath in a race I never signed up for? Did I return that library book, or am I now on some secret blacklist, hunted by librarians like I’m the last piece of contraband literature? Oh, I forgot to call him back. Again. Will I ever feel truly relaxed, or is that what vacation photos are for—capturing a calm that doesn’t exist? Will anyone ever truly understand me, or is that kind of connection reserved solely for poets and songwriters? My favorite singer gets it, sure—but is that enough? Will we survive this long-distance friendship, or are we just two souls drifting, sending occasional smoke signals, hoping we’re still seen? Do my dogs miss me—or are they just happily chewing on my absence like it’s another bone I left behind?