Impression. Something I’ve been keenly aware of recently. Something that was forced upon me, in my face, impossible to ignore.
What one says, the way they say it, how they sit, speak, and appear as they absorb who you are. Or perhaps they aren’t absorbing at all. I may just be some minor supporting cast in their life. Some random and absurd comic relief.
I mock everything, yet despise feeling mocked. I begin to see myself in a new light. I’m the creature that takes nothing seriously, but wants to be taken serious. I find myself disgusted with who I am, and angry at the person who has become this momentary mirror.
The form you take in my mind is unfair. The emotions and assumptions I put on you are not right. But they are real to me, and cannot be ignored. Life proves brutal once more as the love and pain of my past mix into a brutal cocktail of present perception. Impression.
I assume you don’t know love as I see it. I assume you don’t feel pain as I have. I assume you will never know who you are, who has so haphazardly twisted up my past experience, my current hopes, and my so clearly uncertain future. I find myself curious if you will read this, and more curious still who will read this and think it them.
I feel so very real, while wishing I could feel new again. Fear prevails.
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