gryshim's Journal

Who am I?
Who am I, who am I...always a question that seems to be on everyone's lips.

Not a question aimed at me, but a question aimed at one's self. I mean, really, who am I?

I am me. Nothing more, nothing less. I'm not the ideals and wants of other people, maybe...at one point, I was. But, no longer. I'm not what other people think I should be. I'm not what TV tells me I should. I'm not what the world at large wants from another person. I'm too realistic.

I'm too artistic. I'm too masochistic. I'm too romantic. I'm too.

I set myself down and try to figure out what exactly it is I want to say with this journal. My pitiful attempt to be heard, at some level about things that I don't have the strength to talk about with people. Or maybe it's just the things I really don't want to talk about with people because I know the reaction it will cause.

What am I looking for? I'm looking for a bit of truth. I'm looking for real people. I'm looking for friends that I can make that don't consider me 'too'. Or not enough. I'm not strong enough, I'm not cute enough, I'm not nice enough, I'm not dominant enough, I'm not quiet enough, I'm not loud enough, I'm not.

And right now, I don't care anymore. I'm beyond caring about that now. I used to care, even though I told myself I didn't. I did care what people thought. On a level, I still do. I care about people, sometimes. I don't know. I'm battling a divine apathy for all creatures. I just want to set myself apart from everything and try to survive that way. Maybe I'll glean some secrets about the universe this way.

Heh, yeah, like I'm an idiot that doesn't appreciate the friends he has.

I'll be the first to admit that people care about me...but, somehow it just doesn't mean that much to me. I need that one person. I need that one love, that true love to mend my heart. A thing that's never truly been at peace or whole.

I'm an emotional beggar. Taking what I can get, but it's just a quick fix amongst the long line of people who actually feel the emotion. A junkie unable to stop himself from saying certain things to evoke certain responses.

My mother once told me I was too intelligent to have feelings.

I laughed, and knew it was true, but I still wish it weren't.

It's one of those laughs thats teemed with bitterness and hatred. One of those that comes easier than it should.

Because it's only funny 'cause it's true.

I can't let things lie still. I can't leave them be. I tell myself one thing, tell myself it's going to be okay. I tell myself that life will continue and I'll eventually heal and become better. I'll be able to be the person that people want me to be, or at least, be the person that I want me to be. Not some sappy sack of shit that doesn't know when to quit. I pry, and I piece and I tangle things together like it's nothing. I implant psychological impulses into people to get a specific reaction, and it usually works. Then I act like I did nothing.

An emotional puppeteer because I have none of my own.

(Cue bitter teemed laugh)

A romantic that can't feel the one thing he needs to.

Story of my life.

Maybe it's an anxiety to be liked. I was always the outcast. Always the fat kid, last picked, always made fun of, and emotionally and physically weak. I got beat up, I got pushed around, I got yelled at, called names...you name it. I stared into nothingness, willing myself to be strong, willing myself to be better, but what I did was kill off my emotions. A faceless automata, staring at the world through eyes of glass.

And it's funny now, because I can work myself into people's lives. I feel like when I'm there, it's so easy to like me. If I'm picking at your brain, working towards being liked. But, as soon as I've exited the premisis, I'm quickly forgotten again. People continue with their lives, continue on with their own problems and issues and then I fade in and out as I go. I don't make permanent impacts because I don't know how to get people to like me for me, because I don't know who 'me' is. Funny, that.

I've done nothing but soul search and live in introspection, and yet, I don't know who 'me' is. I see the mechanisms of a machine that works flawlessly, but I still don't know who I am. A child at the heart of all this? A child lacking love, a child fearing the dark, a child borne to a cruel world cursing his own luck. A person eternally stuck in the fear that he'll never be enough.

Maybe.

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