I drop things because I don’t know where to put them. My head has long since run out of space. Since I don’t care or dare to clean up the mess that’s already there. There’s not much really, but I don’t want to pick them up and examine them as if the mere act of paying attention to them will make me less. It doesn’t make sense, I know. But I’m not a wise person, and I’m stubborn. That’s what I’m holding on to. I’m someone who chases thrills and shies away from meaningful anything. I’m afraid that I was not worthy. I’m afraid that this life was not worthy of me. Is it silly? While growing up, learning to self-appreciate reminds me that there’s no intact mirrors to look upon. Were my parents proud of me? I don’t dare to evaluate. So I’m locked inside, and I lost the key. Years, decades go by. Maybe that’s just how growing up works. We can’t learn the lessons beforehand (unless you’re wise). I used to be jealous of the people who “don’t have” to learn life the “hard” way. All I was doing was resisting learning. So it was hard. I was stubborn and not wise. I can be a little still now, so that’s progress. I’m learning to be OK with who I am not.