Accepting the Invisibility

I love how no matter how down I am- feeling like it can’t get any worse- there’s always that one person, standing in the backdrop; waiting to agitate you more than you already are. There’s always one person ready to make you feel like shit with their pety, selfish comments. Or that one bitch from school who doesn’t even have the balls to say anything- just sit and stare. It’s not often that I get a compliment from anyone other than my mom, trying to make me feel better about the miserable world we all live in. I think, how can she say that… she knows it’s a lie. Everything is just a lie. Especially when people rave about how things will get better. How can people say that and truly mean it? It gets me thinking, are some actually content with the lives they lead? And why can’t I be like that? Not that I want to live a false life, I’d rather be sad and honest about life than happy and advocating a falacy. I just want… mediocrity. Nothing in my life is less than a typical teenage melodrama… except it’s real. I wish that people would be indifferent of how I dress and act. Who the fuck are they to judge me when their biggest concerning is passing the next exam and fitting in with the standards of society. And they all have that same lifeless stare when they look at you. It’s almost as though they’re seeing through you, but grasping the general point that you’re different. My invisibility doesn’t even phase them anymore. You would think that after knowing these worthless animals for a year, they’d know that the gothic chick named Kat sits in the very last desk in the furthest corner of the room. You choose who you wish not to see. You know they’re name and you know that you don’t like them and wish not to see them- so you don’t. I’m beginning to think that I have some weird ability to come in and out of life. It’s like the people don’t know I’m there- they’re not choosing not to see me; they just don’t, or perhaps can’t. So my apparent invisibility keeps me miserable until one person decides to stand up and say “Hey Kat, what’s new?”

By DeathKat

I'm 17, full of teenage angst, and if labels are loved... I'm "gothic". It hurts so good to be loathed. Talk to me some time. Love and Hope, Kat.