I'm trying to care less about what other people think of me: trying not to perpetually perform for an imagined audience, trying to forget all the invisible eyes on me.
4am in the dark lair of my study, two locked doors between my face and the world...
1pm in the comfortable shade of my private garden, shielded by shrubbery and the reassuring shadow of a tall sycamore...
7pm in the bathroom, hiding my body behind a veil of steam and shame - constantly remembering that non-existent camera, those invented peep-holes...
And always this unwanted internal interrogation:
Do I look pretty? Attractive? Interesting? Unbroken? Normal? Am I pleasing to those anonymous, ever-present eyes?
I catch myself adjusting my shirt to hide an unsightly fold of flab. It's 2am. I'm alone in bed.
I catch my own eye in the darkened screen of my laptop. I close my mouth to hide my crooked teeth.
I think: the opinions of others wouldn't mean so much to you if you liked yourself a little more.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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