Overblown Stones And Impractical Glass Houses

Loneliness is hard.

It’s been a staple of my life, whether in crowds or most frequently; really being by myself. I’m not considerably an open or social person, some might call me misanthropic but that’s a general misnomer given to those who aren’t given the privilege of social acceptance. Whether it be through the shallow grasps of eyes gazing at what they perceive as physical deformity in their social perspectives or just a lack of desire to engage with one they perceive as lesser of their attention. Maybe it’s of other things.

I’ve experienced a lot of it. Racism like a primary girl and her friends chiding and snarking about in Japanese as if being of Asian descent is of lesser class to her white upbringing to the fact that when people stare at my face, they focus in on the fact that I’m not conventionally attractive or dare I say, with the absent silences and fleeting chatter that happens around me rather than towards me is I’m just not of acceptable standards to most people. It was just a passing revelation that came to me a few days ago that I’ve never been one of the beautiful ones but after a few hard looks in the mirror, despondent looks at the selfies which I rarely take that I was never of that caliber and probably will never be. But then it hurts even more to consider that I’m not worthy of attention for even just a normal conversation. Rather I get looks of disgust just walking on the streets or at university like an anomaly. People would peer at my face like a scientific experiment, microscopically scouting all the imperfections and fallible nuances, their eyes cringing and focused, then recoil as I pass them by like a ghastly pariah. This experience had haunted me from the day I was young. Never a cute child, never one deserving. Their eyes striking up hairs on my spine, but I pass by with my eyes to the ground trying to avoid the negative reception just a faded celebrity or just a pile of rotten flesh that unfortunately has a conscience.

Then it kind of made me wonder; the existential crisis. The phenomena that has plagued on those discriminated or isolated from society. Could that be the root of why suicide and depression is high? With social media, have we prioritised too much on our worth with consideration to those around us? Are we made to care too much on how others think?

Broken people respond in three ways.
– We become more isolated
– We do anything for attention
– We try to numb the feeling of an unapproved life.

The saying people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Then the general response is, “it’s pretty stupid to have built a glass house in the first place!” But that’s such a misguided rationality. In reality, a lot of us have a metaphorical glass house. One where we fear but inevitably come to exposing ourselves and one that although provides little protection, allows us to see everything in the outside world. Some of us can leave, where the stones leave their bruises and marks, but we soldier on. Some of leave stay and watch the world pass us by where everyone with their infinite supply of stones are unafraid to target those that they desire. And then some of us prepare to shut the curtains and pretend nothing is wrong.

The question is, why are people throwing stones at people anyway? That side of the conversation never usually comes up when we explore the stupidity of cliches and idioms. But although stupid, they are human. They are inventions that sort of give a view of the people that espouse them.

People usually say that comedians are the most saddest and broken people. I’m starting to feel that the new wave of those who heavily rely on positive affirmations to just survive join that party pretty well. It takes a really broken person to rely on a few cliche words to try and survive and conquer their fears of judgment and daily existence. Those broken people that try to retaliate against the world, everyone else and themselves.

When you look at the mirror on a hazy morning, you don’t see yourself. You don’t really see anything. The world can be tough, don’t make it tougher for others. And show some damn courtesy and treat others with respect. Those are positive affirmations. And that sort of shows the state of reality I’m feeling. I’m baby in the corner that doesn’t get whisked away by Patrick Swayze, but is left at the chair watching other people dance. In reality I’m not even there, I’ve been consciously erased as an extraneous outlier. A sentence of heart removed by the dismissal of editors who cross it out like the millions forgotten in poverty with their stories untold, only put on display like zoo animals for fleeting and superficial compassion from those who have it better.

But I can soldier on another day. And you wonder why people just don’t give a damn about the world. But my personal rebellion is I’ll still care. I’ll still be strong even when I’m weak and hurting. I’ll be supportive of everyone even though I might not get my own share of the recognition. I’ve avoided writing for so long because it felt like I was going nowhere with it. But I’ve realised not everyone in the world gets their stories told. And I’m going to tell theirs. And I’m going to tell mine.

It’s my duty as a writer. And nothing is going to stop me.


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