Chapter Text
I’m not one you can call a glorious ballerina, constantly on their toes yet never toppling. I’m not one you can call a dirt-ridded hermit either, willingly cut from the devil’s claws called society. I’m not one you can call anything. Because imagine having friends, imagine having something that can make you genuinely laugh, imagine having a personality at all, lest one people would like.
Yeah, I know “others that have it worse.” I at least know myself enough that I can feel something was wrong when my reflection looked back at me with long hair. I can agree that Charlie was a more fitting name than whatever it used to be. I can feel wrongness when people used she/her on me. I’m sadly not trans, but yeah, still feels more right that way. Often times people forget stuff like using they/he while still being a girl is a possibility.
But I also know that mental health can never be compared. If you’re suffering your suffering, that’s that. Thinking about it, a diagnosis are like a drawing technique. Have more of it, cool, people notice you’re cool, but that doesn’t change which drawing is better. Nobody can really tell you your drawing objectively sucks, if they do it’s a them problem.
I stare forward at the sky. The clouds ring around the azure like they’re ready to defend the highest point of blue. If he’s in a good mood, I might see Eliot today. I hope it doesn’t seem like I’m stalking him. I just like this corner of the world too, grass and only grass, reaching forward, forming a line between the ground and the sky, attempting to break through the clouds’ defense line.
Eliot. He’s not doing fine either, if I’m correct.
Wind is sweeping across my trouser corners, begging them to fly away with the breeze into the endless green.
I don’t remember him that well, but didn’t he chase the wind too? Away into the unknown, he’s someone you’d remember as forever running.
Oh, there he is, with his friends. They’re just walking today, just the three of them, not the occasional big group.
Okay hold on, it actually sounds like I’m stalking him.
I’m slightly concerned, now thinking about it, but whatever thoughts about potential stalking was interrupted when I hear distant laughter. I know laughter does not equal happiness. But, how his friends regard him, they actually care. Not the kind of sympathy you get for a week and immediately sours if the comments don’t immediately lift you up. They’ll be there forever to help him discover himself, if he so needs it.
He has love in his life. He has something to care for that cares for him back. A reason to live on until he finds more.
It’s only people without love that withers as time runs. Because it’s always love - from and for another person, animal, thing, concept, or just existing. Love, the ability to care, is the only motivation.
And it’s the one thing I don’t have.