And maybe that’s how it works. Bit by bit. Settling in and cutting deep—but blunt so you think its just a tiny dent, a groove, harmless. And there it sits. And there it cuts. Barely noticeable, for now.
And you hum and you sing and you go about with your daily grin, and that’s that.
Until it’s late at night and you’ve been alone for too long. Thought it all out for too long, but still you hum, and still you sing and still there it is, your daily grin. Strained maybe, but practised long enough to not remain that way for long. And you wonder how no one else sees it; how they don’t notice it cutting in deeper and deeper in you, hollowing you out. It’s obvious to you; can’t they see it in the eyes? In the daily grin, strained and perfect for too long? In the drastic, rapid oscillations between the too-good-to-be-true bubbly to the quiet, smiling still?
And always the hum, and always the dull throb of it digging deeper, scooping out another part of you and flinging it to the wind and settling in inside the new, shiny hollow. And always, that daily grin.