Grey

I sit on my bed like a stranger and stare at the wall. A year ago, I would have been using. Today, I just sit here waiting for the meaninglessness to finally mean something.

The same wallpaper. The same stale air. The same attic apartment. Just me, the stranger, and the realization that I can’t escape myself.

For years, I thought this was simply my character. That this was just who I was.

Today, I’m not so sure.

Maybe it was never my character. Maybe it was just a pattern I repeated so often that it started to feel like an identity.

I believed it for so long that eventually I thought it was my own voice.

And although that thought sometimes makes me sad, there is something strangely comforting about it too.

I played “I’m fine” at breakfast with my father so convincingly that eventually I believed it myself.

I was a stranger at my own birthday.

Excuses for the empty bottles in my bag. One more drink in the bathroom so nobody would notice the shaking. One more line at midnight, just to have thirty minutes of silence inside my head.

Sometimes I stood in front of the mirror at three in the morning, trying to find any reason not to disappear completely.

I called loneliness freedom while refreshing old chats and waiting for that little blue checkmark. I called pain depth because at least it felt like something real. I called exhaustion hard work when I kept going after nights without sleep.

At some point it wasn’t even tragic anymore.

Maybe it was beautiful.

Or maybe that’s just another story I told myself.

I don’t know.

Samu