everytime some long lost contact friends suddenly pop up and ask me : how are you? ; I got this feeling that somehow they expect to hear that i am crawling in between the ruins of my broken worlds. “Tell me your stories!”,” your life is like a novel!”, ” hows work? hows your love life?”. I usually replied : Oh! i am good!; I am great! BUT surely they wont stop there, they would say : yeah? sometimes i cant tell whether you are good..good, or you are really good. And i never good at make up stories, so i satisfy them with my real stories : yeahhh i lost the job; things didnt work out; mum messed up; had encounters with few guys; bla bla bla then i would get the basic responses : oh my god! oh no! wtf! i am sorry dear! dada dada dada. I cant help wondering how i can see thru them well how superficial their attentions are, no matter how hard they ll try not to show it, they need to believe that eyes are indeed the window to the souls. Then they would go on with hoping i am alright as if expecting to hear instead that i am on my knee, crying my head off. And for that one, i keep disappointing them, cuz i am still standing tall; bruised, damaged, got to drag my cripple soul sometimes, but i am still standing tall.
And indeed, just like a novel, i am just another show, another read. They probably cant really handle being the character in the story.