This isn’t me (or at least who I used to be)

I used to be full of fire—or anger, to put it better. People used to leave me alone because they were afraid of igniting me. And air used to be fuel; ignite me and I’d explode. I’d explode and leave a train of victims everywhere.

I used to be full of words—written, never spoken. I used to write long, rambling paragraphs about how I felt and what should have been done, et cetera, et cetera. I used to blame the whole world and love myself.

Now I feel like I’m floating on the ocean. Not stormy, but a calm one. The only storm is inside my head; with all the anger bottled up, the tears welled up, the worries shut up.

Ask me what is wrong and I’ll say I’m fine. Because I am. I don’t even know why. I can’t even explain.

I want to go out and have friends; I also want to stay home and not see anybody at all. I want to be social; I want to be left alone. I want to talk; I want to just shut up.

I want to be around people who care but don’t ask questions.