The Paradox Of Being Me

I want to be understood, yet, fear to be known.

I love the radiating joy from the littlest things in life

Like, sunrays. Like, the smell of rain.

Like how I see my father’s back from under his raincoat, or my mother’s reflection on the rear-view mirror.

But I could also burst into tears from the slightest inconvenience on weary days, and blame myself for having such a fragile heart.

I acknowledge deeply the privilege of being me and being here and being able to do anything I have in mind.

Still, on some days, for just an hour, or even only a minute, I feel bitter about everything that I am.

All the things I could have done. All the things I should have done. All the things I shouldn’t have.

All the people that I have let them go. Oh, I want them back so bad.

Somehow, I always find in me 2 halves fighting against each other, and I am always in pieces in the aftermath.

I enjoy being me.

I am tired of being me.

I want to carry on, I have to carry on.

I wish I could just let go and take a long break.

It would be great to have someone witnessing every moment of my life.

It would be safer to have no one knows about the devastating moments of my life.