Normal

Sometimes I am faced with a new situation, and I tell myself, "Just act normal!"

(Actually, I have never thought that in my entire life. However, protagonists in stories often think that very thought.)

But, in some stories, the protagonist will question themselves like so:

"What does it mean to be normal? Somehow, I don't know...."

Righteously intelligent, these protagonists are. Deeply philosophical.

When I am confronted with the opportunity to lie and make everything easier on myself, I do not feel the smallest speck of guilt.

(I have not had any chances to lie recently, so I do not know if this is still the case.)

But there is the pressing matter of how to act as I lie. Do I smile? Does my pitch change? Do I glance over? Do I look into their eyes? Do I shift? For some reason, I can never recall. Although, I've only been caught in a lie a few times.

If someone ever thought to look for it, they could probably notice something about the way I am speaking. Even as I lie, I can faintly recognize that my voice is somewhat more particular than usual. I speak very directly, as though I am actually thinking about what I am saying. It's because I am.

This is unnatural.

And why is it, exactly, that I can almost certainly forget what is normal?

Maybe it's everyone, and maybe it's just me. But when I go through the motions of everyday life, I hardly ever think of what I am actually doing, of what substance there is in my actions, of what inherent weight lies within them. Most of the time, there is none. Normal, to me, is not thinking about anything I'm doing.

However, if I actively try to change my actions--instead of saying, "So, heard you and Kyle broke up. How's that going?" I would smile and say, "Good morning!" in a way that is entirely unfamiliar.

I've always considered myself a sort of person who leeches off of others to meld my personality. Depending on who the person is, I act differently. This is not intentional. This is normal.

But if I alter the set course of my actions, it disturbs a delicate balance. It causes a chain of events, from myself being aware of the fact that I must act differently, all the way down to the point where I am acting differently, and I am trying to act normal, but it is not working.

"Sorry," I'll just have to say, awkwardly, because I am unsympathetic and do not care about dating and dead goldfish and divorces and such.

In an ideal world, the knowing reply would be: "That's alright."

Maybe, I think, I would like to say that to someone someday, and it would sound kind and genuine--

--That's alright.

I would have liked to be that sort of person, idyllic and wonderful.

If only that were normal.