Faking it

I have a problem with doors. Oh, and relationships. Interaction. Making friends.

Y’know that honesty thing that’s so important? Why the fuck do I have such a hard time when the confines are changed? You put a new wall in front of me, and I can’t just get myself around it. I’ll stand there and stare, and stare, and stare. I’ll ask a lot of questions:

Why is this here?
Is it my fault? Did I built it without even realising?
What is it made of? Can it be broken? Could I crack it?
Is it penetrable? Am I meant to just walk through it?
Is that how everyone else does it?
Do other people have this problem? Am I alone in this? Am I fabricating it?
If I closed my eyes, will it go away?
If I move, will I circumvent it? Is that even possible?
Is this what’s been wrong with me, all this time?

And still, nothing is different at the end of all that.  Just the light slowly fading. It takes less time to realise that the most unattractive feature is imperfection – right?
It feels that way. Just look in the mirror – are we pleased?

Hardly.

Possibly worse than this is self-pity.
So buck up, Nigami. You’ve dug yourself that hole. Are you really just going to sit there?

Goddamn me.

Meanwhile, someone else’s perspective helps:

“I wish I could just warn you of my incomplete, shaken up reality.
But I might have lost my mind.

I always wind up with boxed up over-critical motives.
But I’ve made my mind up, my mind up.
And I couldn’t care less who’s turned off.”

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