A Collection of Thoughts

I shouldn’t be this kind of tired at my age.
I admit that I am overwhelmed, at my own mercy,
Victimised by my own hand,
But I’ve always felt if I did nothing, I wasn’t worth
The thoughts I had. The wishes I had.

But I should be allowed to grieve the child I could’ve been.
One without worry, or fear, or a sense of sin.
It isn’t that I haven’t loved every minute but,
I wonder if I grew up too fast,
Or should have spent more time just living.
Not worrying or complaining or comparing myself to an impossibility.

The thing is, even if I could go back to younger me,
I wouldn’t belong there anymore, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
I’ve pondered if today would be different,
Based on yesterday’s decisions.
Whether this year would have been better,
Or worse,
If I had drawn a different line for my life.

But in reality,
Maybe I think too much.
Or feel too deep.
But
You cannot make everyone think and feel as deeply as you do.
This is my tragedy
because I often understand others but they do not often understand me.
It has often been said that I have simply experienced too much.
That I am a little too well versed in my own life,
And the feelings of others.
That, even, my experiences cannot be relatable,
To another of my own age. Nor replicable. Nor explainable.

This baffles me.

I suppose sometimes we expect a lot from someone
Because you’d do that much for them.
Or rather, at least, you’d relate to them, or sympathise with them.
This is not the same both ways.