Fading Into The Background #

i don’t think i exist—
not in the way others do, not anymore.
i can speak, sure, but it’s like my voice
slides past their ears,
just another whisper lost in a room
full of louder sounds, fuller lives.
when i try to say something,
something important,
it’s always too much, too fast, too impractical.
and so i’ve learned to sit back,
let the conversation move without me—
i’ll answer when i’m called,
a well-timed quip to fill the silence.
it’s easier this way, quieter.
my friends say i talk too much,
but all i do is listen.
maybe i speak,
but i certainly don’t talk too much.
how could i, when every word feels like a pebble dropped in the ocean,
gone before it hits the bottom?

at home, it’s worse—
i open my mouth and watch it close,
the words swallowed before they reach the surface.
“shut up,” they say,
“just do as you’re told.”
so i do.
i do and i disappear.
i wonder if i walked these halls
for days, weeks even,
and never said a word—
would anyone notice the silence?
would anyone notice me?

i used to think i was overreacting,
that i was crafting this narrative
to feel more important,
but the feeling lingers, persistent—
i’m nothing but a shadow now, trailing behind them, unseen.

i see the world move,
like a film unfolding in slow motion.
people are out there making choices,
claiming victories,
but i’m always on the sidelines,
a spectator in a play
where my part was written out long ago.
it’s a strange feeling,
watching life happen to others
while it simply drifts past me,
unremarkable, unclaimed.

would my absence even be a ripple?
or would the surface stay smooth,
undisturbed,
as though i never touched it at all?

and these gatherings—
these crowded, buzzing spaces— i’m there, physically,
but i’m not part of it,
like someone painted me into the background
as an afterthought,
a figure with no name.
i’m present, yes,
but not accounted for.

life feels like a dream,
one of those vivid, unsettling ones
where you can see yourself from above,
floating along,
unable to steer the current,
unable to care.
happy moments don’t stick,
sad ones don’t sting—
everything just… is.

my existence feels like a mistake,
an errant brushstroke on a mural,
one the artist never meant to make,
but now it’s there,
blending in with the sky,
unimportant, unnoticed.

i’ve become the background character
in a story i thought was mine,
but it never was.
not really.