I’m still here. Maybe I shouldn’t be. None the less I am. Here. Still.
More at home. When I should be moving.
More at home with who I am, rather than who I think I should be.
Am I?
Or is that just the constant dialogue I tell others? And myself.
I think I should be moving.
But I am not.
I think I should be alone.
But I am not.
I love him.
But I don’t know how to be alone.
I am stationary. But I should be moving.
I am better.
Better than I knew was possible.
But I am not right.
What is right?
Am I damaging myself?
Or everyone?
Or him?
Am I authentic?
With myself?
With anyone?

It feels like reality.
But maybe my reality is a facade.