It’s not that I worry about seeming smart so much as I worry about seeming clever. It’s the less proven and more intangible of the two arts, a thing you can’t prove but everyone else can define. But the truth is, the truth, is I’m terrified that I’m just dumb. So I have this thing that I worry about and I have this thing that I fear and I don’t really know what that means. I think it means I’m dying.
At least that thing that makes me clever, or that thing that makes me seem clever. A sham of a parody of a lie.
This extroverted part of me is getting stronger and that’s making things worse. I’m scared when I’m alone. What am I scared of? Is it that solitude of uninterrupted thought? Those lonely moments when the only thing you can be is honest?
Fuck those girls who dress like Anthropology, those boys who show their bones. I hate them because I am not them and I hate myself for that. I’m Charybdis, but younger.
I don’t feel worth a damn, and I wish that meant something different. I don’t feel needed, and I wish that didn’t matter. I’ve found myself fighting through conversations trying to be important to them but I never am, and my fighting, if anything, removes me. It’s like that part of me is over, that part where I helped anyone. And looking back I only wonder if that part was ever there, or if I was just so clever that it only seemed that part was ever there.
I don’t want to dance anymore, I just want that thing that I always thought dancing would get me and I think that’s happiness.
I don’t want to be dumb, I just want to matter. I would die for my friends and the tragedy is that I never will. I’m immortal.