It's like I've never seen my ceiling before. The thing is suddenly enormous and unfamiliar. In every bedroom I've had, I remember memorizing characteristic patterns and trying to find them again and again every time I looked up. This time it's different. I looked up tonight and was convinced I'd never looked up before. I spend so much time in here that noticing something this small makes my mind race. In the lull of everything, I realize I never just stare up to contemplate anything. I constantly bury my face into my pillows, like I'm constantly embarrassed. More likely than not, I probably am. The shame in my eyes is disturbingly prominent. Like I can see its reflection on other people's faces, which to me bounces back as pity. Or something sadder. A pathetic little expression masked by appropriated responses in context.
My mom asked me tonight, "Are you losing hope?" I swallowed and answered honestly. She was surprised because you're not supposed to lose hope at 22. You're not supposed to give up. I just looked down, strumming idly a guitar I never really bothered with. She sighed a lot and I didn't say much. I never say much. All I can manage was an exhausted phrase, as if a mantra, of "I don't know..."
My dad pretty much said I look like shit. Which is a bitter truth I needed to hear. He just said I look like I don't care. A truth that shows. He told me you're suppose to invest in yourself. That's the whole point. I have no investments, shouldn't that be terrifying? I wasn't terrified about it until it was said aloud. Not once did I look up at either of them. I just strummed broken notes, the shame clawing into me.
