Painfully obvious

It’s becoming painfully obvious—I’m not from here, and I sure as hell ain’t welcome. I did my best to blend in, to be one of them. They tolerated me, sure, but never accepted me. Used to hurt like hell, but after enough rounds of rejection, you go numb.

The few who still give a damn say, Get out more, meet people, like they don’t see the wreckage solitude leaves behind. Hell, even I didn’t see it till it was too late. And after all the bullshit, all the heartache, all I ever wanted was simple—to love and be loved. But somehow, it turned into a goddamn war, and the bodies just kept piling up.

And after a while, even the war lost its meaning. The casualties, the wreckage—it all blurred together into some slow, grinding thing that never stopped, just dragged on, chewing through whatever was left of me. I tried to fight it at first, tried to claw my way back to something human, something warm. But you can only swing at shadows for so long before you realize you're just hitting yourself.

The nights got longer, the days got smaller. Faces blurred together, conversations turned into static. The few who still asked how I was doing didn’t really want an answer, and I stopped pretending to give one. It was easier to say I’m fine than to try and explain the hollow space where I used to keep hope.

I started talking to the walls, to the empty barstools, to the wind that rattled the windows at night. Maybe I was waiting for an answer, some kind of sign. Maybe I just wanted to hear something other than silence.

But there was nothing.

Just the slow drip of time, the weight of all the things I didn’t say, the ghosts of every chance I let rot. And now, I sit here, an old man drowning in his own words, watching the smoke rise from the ashtray, curling up toward the ceiling like a last, desperate prayer.

But it always feels like no one’s listening.