Stray cats and dogs walk around without any clear destination, just roaming through the streets, and I can’t help but feel sorry for them. They look so innocent, so detached from the weight of the world, and sometimes I envy that kind of freedom. Unlike them, I feel like I’m always carrying something heavy. I enjoy helping people, it gives me a sense of purpose, but lately it feels less like a choice and more like a duty. Even right now when I sit here alone writing this, I realize how often I keep apologizing in my head, saying sorry for not being enough, sorry for not doing better, sorry for everything. I wonder when there will be someone who actually carries me the way I try to carry others.
Today alone, so many people have said thank you to me. On the outside, it sounds nice and I smile, but deep inside I sometimes feel like a piece of shit. I know my own flaws, I know the mistakes I’ve made, and the darker side of me that most people will never see. So when people thank me, I keep asking myself whether I really deserve it. Are they thanking the real me, or just the version of me that shows up to help? Maybe they only see the good moments, the surface, while I’m still haunted by all the parts of myself I try to hide.
In Islam we’re told the best people are those who are useful to others. People call me generous, a helper, and sometimes I wear that label like armor. But the truth is I don’t feel like a good person all the time. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I have a dark side that I try to keep to myself. Still, I keep trying, because maybe trying is all I can do right now.
I keep wondering if people would still say "thank you" if they saw me in full, with all my sins, regrets, and selfishness. And that thought makes their gratitude feel both comforting and strange at the same time. It’s like collecting coins that don’t really belong to me, but I take them anyway because I don’t know what else to do. So I keep giving, I keep apologizing, I keep pretending like it’s enough. But deep down, I don’t know. Maybe I’m just waiting. Waiting for someone to say it’s okay to stop, that even with all of my flaws, I can still be worthy. Or maybe I’m waiting to see if that moment will ever come at all.
My friends say I’m okay, that I shouldn’t worry so mucj. I’ve thrown these thoughts away again and again, but somehow they always return. So I write because it's how I can make sense of what I can't say out loud.
Let me be clear, I'm not depressed, Life is beautiful, yes, but it can also be strange in ways I can’t explain. Maybe I’m only tired and maybe everyone else is too.
Good night everybody.
