The “need to do’s” keep piling up—stacking endlessly. They stretch into the sky where my dreams live; where the vultures circle, dancing between flutters and glides. 

The world out there doesn’t seem to care that I still see faces in everything, staring back at me from the shady parts of a crushed faux velvet bathrobe, a disjointed section of wallpaper, or shadows elevating the acoustics of a mid-1990’s ceiling. They’re unmistakably alive. They emerge from the monotony of my “every day,” as if to shake me free from it. There’s a desperate loneliness illuminating from all those frozen expressions…

It’s as if they know that I’ve never felt like I could truly connect with anyone. People always seem to disappoint me. Maybe my standards are too high… Maybe I’ve been so accustomed to masking that I’m not even sure who I am anymore. I’ve no clue how to be “authentic.” I just show them who I think they want to see. 

I hate that I need hugs…and affection…and other humans at all. I hate that a part of me yearns for that so deeply that she builds walls around my heart. I don’t blame her, but…it’s getting lonely in here.  

As “grownups,” we’re just supposed to keep going, always growing, improving, striving, surviving. We put our heads down and play a game we call “Society.” We pretend like we’re not just a bunch of big kids running around out here chasing our tail bones and secretly yearning for connection. 

I’m so tired…and more than physically, I’m tired of pretending that I don’t like pretending anymore. 

Those younger parts of myself are still in here…One of them yearns for love (whatever that is…), while another provides the strength she needs to live without it. Another one cares far too much about what you think of her. She’s a rebel and a master at sabotaging herself… 

Then there’s my favorite part. She feels connected to everything. She’s a single thread braided into the weave that is this existence. She often feels like an alien around others, but somehow she cares far less than I do about that. She’d never dream of feeling lonely. I see her in all the child-like things I still do, almost every day:

I still call bits of floating fuzz “fairies.” I catch them gently. I whisper wishes to them in the cave of my hands and set them alight on the wind, but only if no one’s watching… Sometimes I see vast worlds in miniature patches of moss on rocks but pretend not to notice… Sometimes, just to get through the dishes, I pretend to be a train depot coordinator, guiding each dish to its proper destination. I speak loudly to myself in various accents and giggle into the air around my face—honoring the creative spirit I share with no one.

Sometimes I still feel like I exist—even when there’s no one looking at me… Sometimes I don’t overthink how to stand, or hold my face, or toss my hair. Sometimes I just live…and do what feels right…and cry if I need to—without worrying whether the guy in the car next to me might be watching… 

Sometimes it’s lonely out there, but I’d never admit that out loud…

The broken parts of me make a habit of confusing each other. “I must stay vigilant.” “I must keep smiling for them.” “No one has time for my drama…” 

My greatest fear is becoming a shell of a person—like the one who forgot how to hold me before my first memory. The one who gave me a complex about accepting love, who sparked an appetite I never learned how to satiate…

If only I could soar effortlessly through life like the dream vultures, to-do list be damned. To feel into the flow without the need for company. To be authentic, to come out of hiding, to unfurl my wings and fly—less flutter, more glide.