He's tired.
He really wishes there was a better way to describe the bone deep exhaustion that exists in him, something more unique, something more profound. In the end though it all comes down that simple fact.
He's tired.
He's tired of his blinding smile that's never real.
He's tired of laughing when all he really wants to do is cry.
He's tired of talking when all he says are lies.
Most of all, he's tired of surviving, when he should have been living.
He knows he can't he can't be living, because to be living you have to be alive, and, to be alive you have to be real. Everything about him is undeniably fake.
It's fake because he lies. Lies about his thoughts, his feelings. He lies about his past and his present. He lies to the people he calls friends. The people who claim to know him so well.
They don't know him though, how can they. He doesn't even know himself, not anymore.
Somewhere along the way, he lost sight of who he was, because he spent so long trying to be someone else. Someone better. Someone, that people could like, someone they could love.
They don't though, they think they do but they don't, you can't love someone if you don't know them. They love his mask, his little charade of smoke and mirrors. They would not love the shell that hides behind, they wouldn't want a broken man with a shattered soul. He cannot blame them for that.
He feels sad now, because he cannot blame the world for not wanting him, after all, he doesn't have anything of value to give it back.
Lying isn't a choice anymore. It's become a necessity. He has to lie because he can't remember the truth, he has to fake a smile, so they don't see the deadness in his eyes
He's made his peace with that.
But , he's still tired.