Title: No Title

(Once upon a time, there was a fairytale….)

What’s the point to everything?

This is what repeats and repeats, swirls around and around and around again over and over in a never-ending spiral of self-hatred and self-pity in the deep pits of his mind at three in the morning.

His face is blank, like all of his notebooks, canvases, documents, and ideas lately. Posts of people’s anger, hatred, sadness, disappointment, joy, and most recent emotional turmoil flashes as he scrolls down the screen in boredom.

Does he even matter?

This is what plagues him.

In this day and age, a time full of historical triumphs, revolutionary ways towards new cultural standards, rising conflicts on acceptance and equality and freedom, does he really matter?

He looks at all the important people who are finding themselves, and he thinks of how little he knows about himself. He thinks of all the lies and all the excuses he has spouted, and all for what? Why should it matter what he is like to all the people who aren’t there for him?

There, on the screen, he scrolls past yet another widely-liked post about that transgender guy who finally had a breakthrough with his parents. Then another who’s dyed their hair again.

There’s that girl who’s angry once more, and has passionately spread it to the public. There is the trending post of support towards the raped celebrity. There are six more posts about feminism. There are three more about the political elections. (….They all had roles except for the fool….)

All these people who know their opinions, know who they are, who they  want to be, what they feel, and how they want to speak, and he’s here, apathetically scraping by day by day. Does he matter anymore?

(Did he ever matter?)

He doesn’t like to be called lazy, but calling himself depressed is so strange that he can’t bring himself to use it. He doesn’t know whether calling himself messed up, sick, or struggling is an excuse for his uselessness, or if it is a legitimate reason, and he’s just stopping himself from actually getting “cured”.

He also doesn’t like how he is supposed to be fixed if he is. He’s not broken, he’s just not seemingly normal either. (Is what, thought? Does he even know for sure? What is he?)

He doesn’t know if he’s really asexual, or if he’s just finding terms to label himself with so he can be more unique. He doesn’t know if it’s normal for him to want to be more feminine some days, more masculine the next, yet never fully want to actually be the opposite gender. He doesn’t know if he really can’t sleep, or if he’s just constantly forcing himself to stay awake without knowing. He doesn’t know who he is, what he is, or why he is like this or that, nor does he know who or what he wants to be.

There are a million questions constantly plaguing him every night and every morning.

Is he actually the loud, outgoing person people complain he is, or is he really the antisocial recluse he likes to call himself? Is he really straight? Is he really not straight? Is he narcissistic like those people say he is, or is he the self-depreciating guy the other people say he is?

Then there are the questions and the pressure from those others.

Should he try to be quieter? Should he try to be less morbid? Is he bothering that sort-of friend with his messages? Should he apologize for being upset at that friend weeks ago? They haven’t messaged him in a month. Are they no longer friends?

He no longer has an identity to clutch.

The low battery symbol flashes in the bottom right corner of his screen, right next to the clock, which reads four in the morning.

He sighs, and shifts a bit in his seat, before considering going out of his room to take a shower. He probably won’t get up until hours later, but the consideration is worth a thought or two.

He sighs, and trudges on through his murky thoughts as the world keeps evolving around him. He supposes that at least his inconsistency is a constant. (And so the nameless fool carries on without a title to his pointless circling story….)

Does he even matter, whoever he is now?