He doesn’t mean any harm. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. It just kind of… happens.
“It’s just me, okay?” he explains. “I don’t… I don’t know. I barely know what I’m doing half the time, or why I act the way I do. At this point, I just don’t know what to do.”
He gets scared sometimes. He freezes up. He loses ground. And… people get hurt.
He collapses into emotion most nights. He locks himself in his room, hiding from the world. He blasts his music because he has to. That’s his escape. It helps him forget. That’s he’s insecure. That he’s awkward. That he’s not very good with words. It takes him away. It carries him above all else.
He forgets who he is, that’s how he carries on. If who he is is the one hurting others, then he doesn’t want to be who he is anymore. The music is a sedative. It hurts to feel, so he doesn’t give himself that option. He tenses up. He pushes people away. People who genuinely care, people who just want in. He turns his face away and locks them out. Locks himself inside.
He drowns everything he knows, all the good he’s ever known. “It’s just too good to be true.”
He’s tired of being unaware. Tired of being oblivious. Tired of being a burden.