Have you ever looked at a picture and it causes you to smile but not a second too soon, tears well up in your eyes? The thought hits your mind, like a ton of bricks, that what you are seeing, is what you would love to experience, but you cannot. You cannot, because deep down, there is something reminding you of your unworthiness. That specific experience is just too good for you.
Who are you, to have happiness? Who are you, to have someone look at you, as if you’re the only one existing in that space and time? Who are you? Your eyes turn from the squared hope and you think about the pain that you are going through. You think about the neglect. You think about the loneliness you feel whilst in a crowd. You think about your past mistakes and present punishments. You think of the numerous disappointments. The tears now unwilling to be contained any longer run freely, while you remain trapped in your thoughts.
You think of it all, and you conclude that, this pain that you are going through, is perhaps what you deserve. You deserve to be hurt, and disappointed by the one you loved the most. You deserve to be embarrassed of what you cannot control. You deserve to look in the mirror and see nothing staring back. You deserve it all.
Have you ever thought about what would have been different, if that had not happened? If that one thing was something else? That one person was someone else. That one time was sometime else. The thought of what if floats like a helium balloon, inside your head and you get lost in the possibility, that you are more than the mediocrity. The balloon then pops, when he comes around, and after that last round, you realize that, that was the last supply of helium you had left.
You then plummet to the ground in an ocean of tears. For it happened. All the bad decisions are on a loop in your head. All the names and their faces resume their permanent spots. The familiarity of the pain returns sharply. You are home again. You enter situations you believe you deserve, and suffer, for that’s what you were made for. Shame keeps you still, and draws you away, and creates the idea, that even the one upstairs cannot see pass your mess. The memories, like a plague drive you mad. You quietly suffer through the noise.
If someone who you loved that much, could think so low of you, then it must be true. It must be true, you are the least. The black sheep of the black sheep. The few that matter will say no, however it’s a little too late, for you already know. You pretend to be Pooh but deep down you are an Igor.
But have you ever tried to see pass what is staring back at you and glimpse the light at the end?