A personal essay written for the person that always feels like they are being critiqued and criticized for what they do. I’m here to tell you: nobody is looking.
You think that everyone is looking at you. You think that when you sit alone in the coffee shop eating your sandwich by yourself that everyone in the room just watched you burn your tongue on your hot tea and retreated very ungracefully from said tea. And you think that when you write stuff on your blog, about a break up, or about someone you might like, that however many people are reading about your heart, exposed running like a bare behind on a drunken night down the streets, illuminating, that you’re being judged as sad, or maybe as crazy, or possibly really, really unoriginal. But the thing is that nobody is looking at you. And if they did, maybe they’d care for like a second, not even that, and if you were really offending their lives in such a way for being like an open book on the best seller’s shelf at a Barne’s & Noble or maybe not as grandeur, maybe more like a dropped pamphlet of all the How-To’s to your heart and What Makes Your Knees Weak that an old man just casually stepped on; it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that the sentence I just wrote doesn’t really make sense and it doesn’t matter what people think, either. It doesn’t matter that you’re whining or being weird or being too open or if you’re still not really sure how to use a semi-colon. And maybe sunsets still make you feel kind of lovey and you still like listening to that overplayed Fun. song on the radio or you still wear those pair of faded jeans that make your butt look kind of saggy but you wear it anyway because it’s comfortable (idk why all the butt references sorry.) And it doesn’t matter.. it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t called you in 3 months or that you have to take a break for a moment and just cry in a bathroom stall because it wasn’t enough. I think too much (obviously.) I think so much that strands of my hair are turning half white and I’ve had this blog since I was 17. Now I’m 21, 650 watchful (or not) eyes later, and I still have no clue what I am. I still feel like I’m not enough; it’s not original; it’s not poetic; it’s just sad. But it’s not. It’s me. It’s been me the whole time. And it’s real. So I hope you do whatever you feel and to your heart’s content. No matter how embarrassing, or revealing, or personal… just be you. Because no one is watching.
“You Think That Everyone Is Looking At You,” 2013