At times I imagine knowing what’s going on but no, I never do,
not really, not from the inside where I endlessly sulk and feel rejected, no, I only pretend to get it to appear normal, and sadly, desperately to gain approval of others no matter what I may be feeling inside.
Let me say here, this life-long, well-practiced character charade
to “fake it ‘til I make it” might, and I do mean might, look fine to others, as I smile trying my best to look okay in some small way, but I confess deep in my gut, I feel pretty awful, I’d say I’m running beyond empty.
My “I'm fine, how about you”, daily pantomime performance is totally worn-out but it not only survives, it thrives, within a culture of external reward, while something deeper, something silent, waits patiently for my surrender, to rescue me from myself, to lift me out of my life of fear and my fear of life,
to crack open my shell and breathe Spirit into the dried old nut inside.