Often the wrong afflictions tend to these wounds, escaping everyone. I exist for how others want me, for their purpose, and this feels endless. I have so much to do, the world has so much to offer, yet I stay in a room lit only as dim as my dreams. In this sphere, this glow, though artificial, keeps my eyes wide open. I think, and I cannot tell them what I mean. They think I am suicidal, but I am not.
Photo by Steven Wood on Unsplash
Yesterday I watched the movie Sheep Detectives, and I felt something in it. The sheep would remove their own memories when things became too painful, when someone died. They said the truth was too hard to bear.
But what comes after death? Some order of feeling, some sense that falls into place with it.
Even though we need people, we act as if we cannot survive without them. We lean on others to carry what we cannot, mentally or physically, to make our decisions for us or to take the blame when things go wrong. These are the reasons we tell ourselves we need others, so that some fraction of our genetic worth is seen and appreciated.
