Capitalizing on my feelings is great

It feels that way, but I'm not being paid any kind of compensation for this. I'm just filled with sudden thoughts of rage, frustration, jealousy even. It's consuming the corners of my mind I'm supposed to fill with my other responsibilities in life. Because supposedly, you are not just a blip of an existence in your parents' lives. You exist, and you are real. I am recognizable as a shape and a figure in the chair but not one that is spilling his honesty over the silent eyes of a presumed audience.

I exist, though hiding somewhere in the crevices of my skull. I talk, I explore, I feel things, but then you see me miserably hiding behind my parents, taking longer steps, taking time and space.

There is a desire within me to leave footprints in dry concrete.

Not to be the disintegrating rings of Saturn, orbit built on wishes— crashing, failing and burning, I want to stay existing. Truth is, I don't know who it is they're talking to. Who they went to the doctor with. Who they celebrated New Year's with. I exist, though as a shadow behind someone I barely even recognize. They created a person, an identity that doesn't belong to my sphere.

Lazy daughter who loves to sleep. Who tests their kindness, rebellious and brash. Angry, so easily angry. So little patience. But intelligent. Perceptive, observant of the world but lives in one of her own. She exists. She is real.

There is no raw desire or burning passion in her heart. No quiet longing to be seen.

Her ambitions are controlled. She knows what she wants. She knows who she likes. Assertive and confident in her strides. But she disappears. Her quietness is from being overwhelmed with crowds and lights. She is sensitive.

For one-thirds of their assumptions, they are correct. But they do not know me from the gentleness or the silence that's comfortable, made for myself. They do not recognize the faces that's filled my scrapbook, their words immortalized in plastic film. My mentors and other significant people in my life are there, but not in their stream of consciousness. In time, the treatment has built walls around me.

While these feelings are burnt into my furrowed brows, I write to you again in my isolated planet— my world of words.

I thank you for passing by.