i feel: worthless. worth. less. worthless than who? worthless than what is more appropriate. she does not exist, is not tangible, does not take up space, is not composed of the fve basic elemental compounds, is not a person. Is a figment. Constantly transfiguring and transforming, it is beyond impossible to attempt to ever be of the same "worth" as she.
i feel: insignificant. obviously i can never measure up to these imaginary expectations - those of my own or (on a much lesser level) those of anyone i know (come to think of it - or those of anyone i don't and won't know). i feel as though all of the stage lights are directed elsewhere during my soliloquy. the audience becomes restless, shifts in their seats, sneaks serruptitious glances at their watches in hidden spare moments. my eyes plead, "this is not my fault," but the mea culpa falls on deaf ears. forget loss of electricity, forget set crew asleep at the helm, forget that anyone can make a mistake. at this point, my voice cannot be heard anyway. i much prefer to sprint back to the familiar safety that lies beyond the thin crack of light under the heavy velvet curtain. my lines do not matter. i feel: small. my disappearance would hardly go noticed. the role is not a crucial one but rather was added simply to stall for time while the stars switched costumes backstage.
i feel: bewildered, frightened, disoriented. i wear the alarmed expression of a female fawn caught in the headlights of a four wheel drive, five ton, all terrain, living-room-on-wheels sport utility vehicle. my freezing body wanting nothing but to turn around and retrace those steps across the unforgiving pavement. desiring to learn from those small mistakes. i thrive on the regret left in the aftermath. i want the chance to make the right decision next time. i want a next time. frozen in the split second moment, though, i am scared because i know that this is the first and last and only time. and it could have been prevented if i had looked both ways.
i feel: unalive.