My absence is a finely tuned instrument, a melody of discomfort played on the strings of my low self-esteem. It's a concerto composed in the key of self-loathing, a solo performance for the orchestra of empty chairs that line the stage of my life.
I don't grace people with my absence out of arrogance, like some aloof king bestowing his presence upon the unworthy. No, it's a desperate act of kindness, a sacrifice on the altar of their comfort. I'm a walking storm cloud, a human embodiment of awkward silences and forced smiles. My presence, I fear, is a contagious disease, my laughter a discordant note in the symphony of social harmony.
So, I vanish. I become a ghost, a whisper in the wind, a shadow flitting through the periphery of their vision. I cancel plans, feign illness, invent elaborate excuses to slip away into the comforting embrace of solitude. It's a lonely dance, this self-imposed exile, but it's a dance I've mastered with the grace of a seasoned ballerina of self-deprecation.
Why subject them to the spectacle of my self-inflicted misery? Why burden them with the awkwardness of interacting with a creature who sees only flaws in the mirror of self-reflection? My absence, I believe, is a gift, a silent plea for them to forget the rain cloud that lingers above my head and remember, for a fleeting moment, the sunshine that may once have peeked through.
It's not a noble act, this self-imposed exile. It's a symptom, a festering wound of self-doubt that festers in the recesses of my soul. I envy the ease with which others navigate the social landscape, their laughter echoing like wind chimes in a summer breeze. I yearn to join the dance, to shed the cloak of invisibility and step into the light.
But the fear, it's a paralyzing monster that claws at my ankles, whispering tales of rejection and disappointment. It's a voice that drowns out the timid counter-melody of hope that whispers of connection and acceptance.
So, I retreat, my absence a silent apology for the person I fear I am. I build walls of solitude, brick by painful brick, hoping that one day, the mortar of self-forgiveness will be strong enough to hold back the tide of self-loathing.
Perhaps one day, I'll find the courage to disarm the monster, to silence the chorus of self-doubt. Perhaps one day, I'll be able to join the dance, not as a ghost, but as a participant, flaws and all. But until then, my absence will remain, a melancholic symphony played on the strings of a heart that yearns to be heard.
