confessions of a somebody

I've spent my life trying to be something I never really understood. I always felt so external to everything. Everyone would tell me I had a beautiful mind, or I was so unconventional, or so creative, and I never understood. I was just being me, and I wasn't sure who that was. I only knew what everyone else thought.

It was never exciting or eventful or interesting. I learned everything I could and never took risks because risks never seemed interesting. I sat, and I watched, and meanwhile, around me, life happened. Sometimes people took notice of me, but mostly it was that I was outside of everything. I had perspective. I was calm and reasonable. I gave sound advice because I thought about everything from the right angles.

I was completely fucking miserable, just waiting for something to happen.

Everyone close to me has a compelling narrative, even if they don't see it. I could tell hundreds of stories about them. I want to, even. It's so beautiful, every last one of them. I don't feel like I'm a part of them. I'm outside, watching, wishing I could be a part of it.

In all my years, I've been alive for less than six months of them. I felt alive and significant and part of something, and I wasn't outside watching anything anymore. I smiled sometimes. I didn't need to hide behind jokes. I was free.

It's just a memory now, hazy and distant, but happy, in the sense that I'm vaguely aware that it was the best thing to ever happen to me, even if I still don't understand it. I envy myself for it. It's better than the alternative.