Every once in a while, everything in me just stops and I have to wonder why it is that I was born a human at all when I barely feel like a person most days. I am a student and a daughter and a sister but I am not much else.
It was not a lie to say that I was finally happy when I got into uni. I truly, genuinely was. As everything else is, even that was ephemeral as morning dew, vaporizing at the slightest hint of heat. It became routine after a while, and then I am once again a pathetic husk of a child clinging to the one "meaning" I could assign to my life; an extension of my parents' will, living only for the sake of not making them sad. A good daughter, managing to get into a uni most of my family went to. The worst part about it all is that I know that they did not force me to do anything. Hints were all they truly gave. No threats nor yells not guilt piled on just for the sake of making me do what they wish me to, and yet, each and every word was a nail upon the coffin I was building for myself.
I realize, perhaps too late, that everything I ever did was to make them proud of me.
Art and writing were the only things truly my own. A mere hobby in my parents' eyes, anyway. A path for fools and the already wealthy, something that shouldn't and couldn't be a big part of the life of someone with a stable economy. They were parts of my soul, scratched upon paper and displayed on computer screens. They were little fractions of myself I could look at and analyze, because without them, I was nothing at all. Characters that each bore a piece of my Self; concepts that I am made of but could never fulfil.
I would have made a wonderful character.
A silly little thing going about their life, learning about the world and everything in it. She would make for a wonderful little subject to be analyzed and torn apart and put together again. Everything wrong with me would be a wonder instead of a curse.
In the end, it is nothing short of a fantasy.
I don't even have the time to create anymore. Even during the holidays, I'll need to continue on my path lest I fail at the goal I have set for myself in an effort to finally make them cease breathing down my back. My imaginations continue, yet my hands are tied to the table, writing formulas instead of plots; reports instead of poems. I fear I have forgotten how. Even now, my "fic planning" is more like scrounging for references from the deepest, darkest pits of the web, hoping against hope that there would have been at least someone who thought of this before me.
I do not know if I'll be able to come back, hope that I might. I do not know if I am whole enough to. Not to mention all the jokes the internet has no doubt created in my absence.
Funny, is it not? That we start to want to live when our lives flash before our eyes, yet want to die again as soon as the danger has passed.
