I keep writing letters to myself and publish them. I know what I want to say to me, but I keep telling it to you. It’s easier that way, because it’s almost a promise made to the world.
One day, I promised myself to learn how to love and how to be good and how to be a beautiful human. I promised I’d be everything that other people were not to me.
27 years have passed and I still don’t know how to love. I’m not good and I am not a beautiful human. I am still scared of people and secretly I wish I was dead, because it would be simpler.
I don’t hate you people, I just don’t care. I’m not sure how to love, but I’m hella good at not caring. It’s easy and clean and it lets me sleep at night. My mind does not bother with weird thoughts of unfitting.
I’m not bad, but I’m not good either. I try to act on impulses, I try to help as much as I can and I’m not the vengeful type, yet I’m not good. My existence does not touch people and I feel perfectly fine with that. In my book, this equals not being good, but I think I might be wrong.
I am not a beautiful human. There’s no denying that, because I don’t like my fellow people and I’m scared of them. I try not to be too visible, but I also try to not be the bug people think I am. I like solitary confinement with music and a blanket, I don’t like crowds, gossip and mean people, but I also don’t feel at home inside close knit groups of benefactors.
I just don’t belong here, and I’m afraid to find out where I do belong.