Fuck hiding.

I'm done.

I'm shocked at how freeing the decision is even as the weight of the repercussions of things I haven't even done yet comes crashing down on me.

Yet now I'm flying.

I might just be smiling. In fact, I know I am because they're looking at me strangely. I have many smiles, but this is one they do not know. I can see that it scares them, but I continue smiling—for once not having to work to keep the joyless expression glued to my face.

But how can it be joyless when I feel so good, so free?

Oh right, joy is alien to me. No, not an alien—I know it exists because I have seen it in others. No, joy is more like quantum physics to me. Like Schroedinger and his fucking cat—alive and dead at the same time. Like my smile, joyless and happy all at once. Both and neither until you open the lid and see what's inside.

They're openly staring at me now, and I feel a flash of panic that I've spoken aloud. But they just stare. So much for my very own personal Schroedingers.

Am I still smiling? What happened to "Fuck hiding"? Have I abandoned it in a profane parody of the patterns of my life? Everyone leaves—eventually. And often I am the one to drive them away. But have I already abandoned my own freedom? That doesn't seem right—it's just a tiny fledgling barely sure of its own fragile wings. It needs me to give it flight.

But that would take an energy I do not possess.

Do not fuck hiding.

It is all I have.