I’m so sick and tired of your lack of compassion. I beg for compassion but I get exasperated instead.
I’m so sick and tired of being so sensitive. I’m tired of caring so much to the point that I can’t care for anyone but myself. I’m tired of caring in a life full of chaos and noise in a world that balances so precariously on the verge of total anarchy.
But it’s not your fault. You’re normal.
I’m not special but I don’t think I’m normal. Because I know the world is not on the verge of total chaos and anarchy but I always feel the noise.
I don’t see other people walking around struggling, being afraid for no discernible reason, always on the verge of tears.
I don’t see other people walking around, having a moment’s peace, and because of a slight atmospheric shift feel compulsed to hug the fat kid in line and assure him we’re not all bullies, or lament with the old woman at the bus stop for the unfinished life she regrets.
I don’t see other people struggling to quiet the chaos and the noise so electric in the air.
But I’m certainly not one to judge anyone by what I see.
Because I don’t ask.
I don’t find answers. I don’t reach out.
Who knows? That fat kid in line could be teeming with self-esteem and surrounded by loving friends. That old woman at the bus stop could be cherishing her success in pioneering equal rights.
The shift I feel in the atmosphere could be my own orbit, a circling tempest no matter the current weather, and I’m projecting. The fact that I care too much is because I only care about me.
In that case, maybe I’m too normal. Certifiably, uncomfortably, bat-shit normal.