Lately, life has felt like one long, elaborate prank at my expense. It’s as if the universe decided I’d make a great main character in a sitcom—except the kind where the laugh track is just my own nervous chuckles, and the comedic timing always works against me. Imagine walking straight into a glass door or stepping on a rake like an old-school cartoon, and you’ve pretty much summed up my daily existence.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I still have moments where I can laugh about it. Like when I reach for the cereal, only to realize the milk is gone. "Of course, why not?" Or when I spend ten minutes searching for my glasses, only to find them sitting on my head. Classic. These little misadventures are funny in a "Can things get any more cliché?" kind of way. But beneath these sitcom-worthy mishaps, there's something heavier, like a lighthearted show that suddenly shifts into drama without warning.
Because the truth is, behind all these laughs, I feel like an emotional iceberg. On the surface? All good. But beneath? Let’s just say if someone casually asked how I was doing on the wrong day, there’s a solid chance I’d just burst into tears. And a hug? Oh, I could definitely use one—but I wouldn’t dare ask for it. Growing up, I learned to accept pity like it was pocket change, handed out in small, uncomfortable doses by well-meaning relatives. It made me wary of appearing weak, so I built this habit of pretending to be strong. Always strong. Always fine.
But pretending gets exhausting. The storm cloud that hovers over me doesn’t just disappear when I put on a brave face. It lingers, casting shadows even on sunny days. And I wonder—how long do I have to wait for it to get tired and move on? Maybe I’m the one who’s tired. Tired of bracing for the next downpour, tired of playing the role of someone who has it all together when, in reality, I’m just dodging raindrops.
But here’s the thing—I still hold on to hope. Hope that one day, the cloud will part, and I won’t have to force my own sunshine. That I’ll wake up without that familiar heaviness, that I’ll laugh without overcompensating, that I’ll feel the warmth of the world instead of shielding myself from the next storm.
And when that day comes? Oh, I’ll be the first to throw a farewell party for my personal raincloud. Until then, I’ll keep finding humor in the chaos, laughing a little too loudly at the universe’s jokes, and reminding myself that even the longest storms eventually run out of rain.
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