this is me not being decent
it is genuinely, physically exhausting to perform the role of a person. i’m not even talking about the big stuff, i’m talking about the micro-maintenance of appearing "fine" for the sake of everyone else's comfort. i’m talking about the fact that when breathing feels like hauling rocks up a hill and my brain is a dark, heavy fog, i still find the energy to reflexively mirror a smile back at a stranger. why is that the default? why is my survival only acceptable if it’s wrapped in a bow?
we’ve been conditioned to think that being human is only allowed if it’s "decent," but who decided that being a mess was the opposite of being decent? who decided that the "ugly" parts - the greasy hair, the staring into space for three hours, the complete inability to be a functional member of society for a day - are things we have to hide in the basement of our personalities?
the world is so repulsed by the "unbecoming" because it’s inconvenient. people don’t actually want you to be okay, they just want you to be quiet. they want you to curate this life-loving, "it’s a beautiful day to be alive" persona because it keeps the illusion going for them, too. but i’m tired of the curation. i’m tired of the aesthetic of wellness.
honestly, what even is "ugly"? is it the mess, or is it the fake-ness we use to cover it up? because to me, there is nothing more hideous than the pressure to be pretty while you’re breaking. i don't want to be "decent" anymore if decency means lying about how hard it is to just exist. let me be a disaster. let me be unpalatable. let the void see me as i actually am, instead of the version that’s easier to market.
