PERFECTION- a original piece
I used to think “getting my life together” would feel motivating.
Like background music playing, a clean desk, a strong jawline, main-character energy.
It started with my dad standing at my door, looking at my room like it personally offended him.
“You need to fix yourself,” he said. No shouting. No drama.
Which somehow made it feel even worse as shit.
So I did what any reasonable person would do.
I made a timetable. A very serious timetable.
Color-coded. Over-ambitious. Completely unrealistic. I followed it exactly… one day.
Day two?
I stared at the wall for 40 minutes and called it “mental preparation.”
But something was stuck—not motivation, but pressure.
I started waking up earlier, not because I wanted to,
but because not waking up early started feeling… illegal.
I stopped wasting time—or at least, I stopped enjoying wasting time, and that was a big difference.
I even stopped making time for my own entertainment.
People noticed. They whispered, “Bro, you’ve changed,” “You’re disciplined now,” and “Finally.”
Finally.
That word kept showing up like I had been defective before.
Which, okay—fair—but still.
At first, it felt good. Less chaos, less guilt. More… structure.
Then it got weird.
I stopped laughing properly. I forgot how to express emotions.
Not intentionally.
Just… jokes felt like something I needed to process before reacting.
Like my brain had installed a filter:
Is this productive? Is this necessary? Approve? Reject?
Most things got rejected.
The memes I once enjoyed started to feel like dumb shit to me.
My friend sent me a dumb meme one day—
the kind that would’ve had me laughing for no reason.
I looked at it.
Blank…
Then replied:
“Nice.”
Even I didn’t like that version of me.
But I didn’t know how to uninstall it.
At home, it got better. Too much better.
My mom stopped reminding me to study, and my dad started nodding at me like I had finally become… acceptable.
“Good,” he said once.
Just that one word. Only that one word.
And I swear, that one word hit harder than anything.
So I doubled down.
Less talking, more doing, no distractions, no nonsense.
No… me.
Days started blending.
Wake up. Work. Eat. Sleep.
Repeat.
No resistance.
No confusion.
Just… execution.
One evening, my friend called.
“Bro, come out. We haven’t met in weeks.”
I almost said yes.
Almost.
Then I looked at my desk, at my schedule, at everything I had built.
And I replied, “I’m busy.”
He went quiet for a second.
Then laughed.
“Man, a busy person, aren’t you? Who even are you now?”
I was speechless. No answer, nothing at all.
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t have one.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
Not because I was stressed.
Because everything was… too quiet.
So I opened an old notebook.
The one I used to write random stuff in.
Thoughts, jokes, half-baked ideas that made no sense.
I flipped through its pages, and for a moment—it felt like reading something written by someone else.
It was messy, unfocused, kind of stupid.
But… alive. It really was me. And I wasn’t me anymore.
I stared at it for a while, trying to feel something.
Anything.
Then I closed it.
Because honestly, it didn’t seem useful anymore.
The next morning, my dad looked at me and said,
“This is who you should’ve been from the start.”
I nodded.
Of course I did, but something didn’t feel right.
I felt like I was the shell of a snail where the snail had gone missing.
Later that day, my friend messaged again.
“Are you even coming back to normal?”
I typed a reply.
Then paused.
Because for a second—
something in me hesitated.
Something small but familiar.
Like it was trying to say something.
I stared at the screen.
Waiting.
But it didn’t come out.
So I deleted the message.
Typed again.
“Yeah, I’m fine, and the word ‘normal’ can be subjective. I am normal from my side.”
Sent.
Although I wasn’t normal anymore.
And just before I locked my phone, for a split second,
I thought I saw another message appear in the chat.
From my own number.
Unread.
I opened it.
It just said:
“You are not me anymore, bring me back.”