Life is like a sharp stick, not jagged or poisoned. Nor is it long, where it’ll pierce the skin deeply. It’s simply meant not to wound, but to wake us as if consciousness needs violence to exist. It’s a little cruel. Are we meant to learn to bleed in silence? Or are we being forced to grow calluses to keep ourselves breathing? It’s hard to tell which is which nowadays. Is that really what we want?

We’re told to adapt. To change. To be someone else. But what if we don’t want that? It doesn’t seem like it’s our choice, though. Life’s feeding these thoughts into our minds as if survival is the only proof that we’re living, that we’re human. But what if staying unchanged is the only way we’re able to recognize ourselves?

It’s conflicting. Does one change to fit the normality of society? Or do we stay ourselves? And if we do stay ourselves, what does our mind do? Does it choose to detach itself from us, like it’s trying to protect us from something we don’t know we’re supposed to be running from?

What is that exactly? Are we supposed to be running from ourselves? Strangers? Or close friends and family? It’s not clear — nothing is. It’s trying to tell us one thing, but then goes and does another. Life’s unreliable.

Are we supposed to change ourselves? Or stay completely the same? Because there doesn’t seem to be an in-between. And I know our minds are trying to protect us, but I still don’t get it. At first, it’s a defense. Later, it’s an old habit, like when you gnaw on your nails. And soon, the voice in our head is no longer self-made — it’s pre-written.

Why is it pre-written? Is it written for us by everyone else? Or is it stitched from the high expectations everyone has of us? Escaping from that is no longer an option, it seems.

We’re forced to shut down, block ourselves from everyone and everything. No longer able to move on our own. Speak on our own. God, we can’t even think on our own. It’s terrifying to the point some of us want to hide and never be seen again. And who says we can’t?

We have nothing that’s our own now. No thoughts. No heartbeats. No words. Not even a sigh of relief is our own. Life is like a sharp stick that’s not meant to wound, right? But it does the exact opposite — wounding us to the point we break. We just aren’t able to realize it until it’s too late.