Tell me what’s wrong?

I’ve suddenly changed my perspective on the word “graveyard” recently. I no longer think it resembles a final resting place where things just stop and won’t ever change. At least in the places I know, I’ve started to see them differently.

How about you? What comes to mind when you hear the word “graveyard”? Can you close your eyes for a moment and think? Is it grey? Is it bleak? Do you feel sad and empty when reading it? Tell me, because mine is different.

In my mind, in the places I know, it’s a field of green, full of flowers and beauty. Everything grows there. It feels like the soil heals the things that live around it. But I’m not going to lie to you — there’s a certain feeling that lingers. I think it’s grief. Are you familiar with it?

Some people may have different perspectives than I do, and that’s fine. I believe what they feel about certain places, about certain memories, is more important than what I think. Some of them have lived longer than I have. The sadness, the anger, the hopelessness, the helplessness linger more deeply than I could ever feel.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m different from everyone else. Not that I want to be the same, nor do I think it’s a bad thing to be different, but I often feel like the odd one out. Thinking about it triggers a certain feeling that I can never fully accept. I feel weird, like Bizarro — you know, the failed clone of Superman.

It feels wrong to be alive, but it’s the only thing I feel I must do. Like I was programmed to live, and that’s it. Feelings always come later, and I don’t start thinking unless the pain emerges.

So, can you tell me what’s wrong?