Doing it Wrong

Why does it feel so uncomfortable

just sitting here?

Like something is off,

not loud enough to point at,

but present enough

to not ignore.

A quiet kind of alienation,

where everything around me

feels like an act.

And not a new one,

something rehearsed,

something people have learned

to perform well.

And me—I don’t know

where I stand in it.

Do I keep going—play along,

say the right things,

become a part

of something

that doesn’t feel real?

Or do I withdraw-slowly,

quietly,

before I lose

whatever part of me

still notices this?

Because there’s something

more unsettling than the act—

it’s giving,

and still feeling

like you were never more

than a tool in it.

And I don’t know

what’s worse,

pretending along with it,

or realising it

and staying anyway.

Between you and me—

it’s you.

You walk into a room and the air shifts,

quietly, without announcement.

People lean in closer,

time rearranges itself around you,

as if being near you

is its own small reward.

I stand just outside that circle

and wonder—

if I step in,

if I become one of those who give without being asked,

would I be crossing a line

I don’t even know how to see?

Isn’t it lovely to be liked—

by friends, by colleagues, by the whole bright world?

Is it the quiet current you carry,

the way your presence

turns ordinary moments into something chosen,

or is it simply

how light seems to find you first?

Do you notice it—

this attention that gathers around you—

or has it become something

you no longer question?

Is there someone out there

whose attention you seek?

And does it matter to you

who notices you most?

When kindness finds you—

easily, repeatedly—

do you feel the weight of it,

or do you simply accept it

as something

that belongs to you?

Time is the only thing

you spend with care.

You decide who is worth the minutes,

who is worth the hours.

You never asked to be liked,

and yet,

you choose—quietly—

who gets to remain.

What does all this attention become?

Does it make you softer,

more aware of yourself,

or does it settle into you

like a quiet kind of power?

And when it fades—

even for a moment—

does the silence feel like rest,

or like something missing?

Something you didn’t realise

you had grown used to?

I am still learning

the difference

between standing near something luminous

and trying to belong to it

without losing myself.