The mediocrity that is me
Make me bleed.
Know me. Know me. Know me.
It's the cry that seems to echo from the depths of
everyone's heart. You can see it in the eyes of rich and
famous --- everyone knows their name. You can see it in
the eyes of the homeless man on the street who asks you
for a cup of coffee and then proceeds to tell his life
story to the guys working the graveyard shift at 7-11.
How else is anyone going to make life worth living?
Happiness shared is doubled and sorrow shared is halved,
but first, you must have someone to share it with.
Look at me over here, falling victim to the curse.
Writing my thoughts down on notebook paper in the dark
with a cigarette in my mouth. Know me. Why
bother writing any of this down? Why bother posting it
publicly in an online journal? Under the shroud of semi-
anonymity, I'm desperately crying out for someone, anyone
to know me. Know me intimately. Know me like I know
myself. Know me better than I know myself.
But with our desire for intimacy comes fear of rejection.
It's why I post without revealing too many details. Why I
hope that no one out of my knowledge reads this. Why I
avoid posting many personal details about my day, drama in
my life, stories that pertain to people I know, how I
really feel about anything. Why I stick to
my pointless ramblings and musings. Why? Because I'm
afraid. Sure, you know me. But do you really
And the cry is now no longer "know me" but "love
I want to be known on a deeply intimate level, but more
than that I want to be known and loved.
Who am I, really? I don't know. What am I, really?
Lonelier than I ever thought possible.
I'm back at square one.
But do any of you really know what that means? And even
if you asked, would I answer completely, holding nothing
back? Or will I just continue to crave intimacy and fear
it, holding on to my anonymity because I am desperately
tired of being hurt.