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I don’t have to want to. Reflections from August 29, 2024
- Lady Ronit
- Jan 9
- 5 min read
Everything is beautiful, wonderful, simply magnificent. I don’t go outside, because I don’t have to want to. 301 missed calls. I won’t call back. 456 unread messages. I wouldn’t want to have myself as a friend. But wait, do I even have friends? Well, yes, there’s Mom, myself, and Dad. I don’t let others get too close. I don’t have to want to.
I really like my summer routine. When it’s a good day for it, I open trades on the stock exchange. Short ones, because I have issues with long-term commitment. Is that a problem? I don’t have to want to. If not, or when I’m done, I write, exercise, and eat. In the evening, I dance. Sometimes I give in to my friends’ invitations. Sometimes I go out somewhere, or go away for the weekend, sometimes for weeks. I love locking my phone in the hotel safe and not taking it out. I don’t have to want to.
The older I get, though I’m still very young, the less I need. I think I’ve had everything already, and it’s all become boring. When I was fourteen, my biggest dream was to buy shoes and a handbag. When I turned sixteen, I switched to travel. I just wanted to explore new places. Now, at nineteen, although I still like it, I don’t have to want to anymore. Actually, it’s quite boring. Do I have depression? No.
I am a very happy person. My values have simply become quite different. For the past year, I’ve been writing more, though I’ve always been writing. The best in class, from elementary through high school, always. So, since I already have everything, I’ll just keep writing. Even if, like Van Gogh, it turns out I’m an Undervalued Artist, I always have a warm spot waiting in business, maybe even in politics. In essence, I don’t have to want to. I can get married or not. I can write the truth or make up another story. Or do nothing because I don’t have to want to.
Life isn’t worse or less passionate. Lately, it’s all happening inside my head, not around me. I don’t go out because I don’t like to. I meet new people, but I don’t get involved. I have a strangely large number of acquaintances, but it terrifies me when someone refers to me as a friend. What friend? Since when do I belong to you? I don’t want to be anyone’s friend, I don’t have to.
I am also gradually softening, which is inevitable with age. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll lose my sharp edge. I don’t know what’s better: to stab random people while wielding a knife too powerful for my self-control, or to look in the mirror and melt more and more. Sometimes I feel humble, like a lamb. Actually, only I think so. If you asked my Mom, she’d laugh at you. Dad, too.
I lie on a bed, literally a bed, like a Roman one. I feel the pleasant air conditioning on my shoulders. In the afternoon, my friend and I are going to read on the beach. Few of my friends know where I am, who I’m with, what I look like, what I’m doing. I really like that. And yet I created social media accounts. The Unrecognized Artist is one of the most powerful driving forces, since this affliction has forced even a staunch opponent like me to use these communist social media.
Social media. How tragic that sounds. I wonder how long I’ll keep these social accounts. My phone already has Medium, Instagram, Threads, and X. Am I supposed to write my whole life to a folder on my laptop?
And since everything is thoroughly thought out, the articles are written for the next two months and a bit. In case one day I just don’t feel like it. I also have a whole armour prepared in my head for the inevitable criticism. First, I am too intelligent. I am ahead of my time, so it’s no surprise that none of my contemporaries understand me. Second, it’s all a circus. I don’t like anyone anyway, so why would I want anyone to like me? They don’t have to want to.
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