Anyways

There’s a violence to always being the chooser. A certain spoiledness that blooms from never waiting at the door, only deciding which ones stay open. You become unbearable in small ways. A brat with expensive instincts. A heart that stomps its feet when The Creator says no. Disappointment still cuts deep. Embarrassingly deep. You still bleed over things that barely touch other people.

But somewhere along the way, the skin learns. Not thicker. Just faster at rebuilding over the bruise. Like the body memorizing survival. Like a private evolution. Self-awareness becomes its own surveillance system, mirrors inside mirrors, reflection looping until it almost feels mechanical. You notice every crack in yourself in real time. Every flinch. Every ego death. Every silent rejection. And still, you keep choosing. Because eventually you stop worshipping detachment. Stop romanticizing the cool, indifferent way of living. You stop pretending numbness is maturity. You learn there’s something more honest about wanting too much and surviving it anyway. Disappointment still ruins you for a moment.

You still throw quiet tantrums at fate when it refuses your design. But now you open the door for heartbreak yourself. Now you greet it before it arrives. Not because you can handle it but because you no longer need life to go your way to know you’ll continue. So yea.. anyways.