The last time I wrote, I was happy and I didn’t do a very good piece. Then I stopped writing for a long time because I thought I was fine. I think one part of why I’ve got here was the lack of introspection.
Now I will write again, but pardon me as my pen is rusty. I bend it at various angles and the ink comes out in bits and pieces. Still, here goes.
I can’t put my finger on that exact moment I felt unhappy. Unhappy is such a poor word, it can’t even come up with it’s own personality, it’s just the opposite of happy, leeching off the meaning of happiness. No, this has it’s own definition, an unfulfilled heaviness. Why is it that negative feelings are defined with respect to the positive word? Unhappy, unfulfilled, disillusioned.
It was just building over the years, collecting its momentum from when I first got into a relationship. I’ve spent my whole life taking care of people, from taking care of my sisters to finding someone to take care of. And this isn’t a bad thing, but if my worldview and happiness became defined by loving someone else, then who am I really? It became such that I felt boxed in, molded by societal expectations and norms – to be faithful and love someone, one must push through the hard times, one must support each other. But I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want to feel all these obligations weighing down on me, and be kept prisoner by these expectations that I define myself by.
Why be happy when you can be normal?