Cry from behind the door

 An old friend sent me voice notes. 

Like a tongue reaction tasting new cuisine, my hearing sense was startled. 

It's been weeks that my days filled with five kinds of voices: my dad, my mom, my sis, my boss and colleague. Two latter are via online call. 

It feels rather strange to hear a new voice and accent talking directly to me. Of course, TV, Youtube, Spotify, and Netflix don't count because they don't talk directly to me. 

I found it funny that staying home for a long time can make you feel estranged from the world and civilization. After some thought and discoveries, I found it worrying. 

After 2 years of movement restriction, I thought things would get easier and normal. In a way, it does. In another way, not so much. 

I open my wardrobe, looking at lines of clothes jailed up in it, still finding no chance to be worn outside.

'Hey, we know we are not branded or expensive, but we are 'your' fancy clothes deserve to be taken out, shown off somewhere,' I imagine their crying out for help. Some even still have their tags on. 

It's first world problem to be troubled by the least trouble in the world - unworn clothes, I know. On the other side of the world, people don't even have a decent place to stay and necessities. So I suppress my unnecessary anxiety. 

The close-friends chat groups now are mostly silent. We don't talk as much. I don't initiate convo or reply in the same spirit as before. The interval of replies and toneless messages are not engaging and connecting. 

Life has been about work, exercise and reading to spare my mental health and repeat. 

I have been exposed to enough self-help books, spiritual preaches about life purposes, value, and meaning. Still, many times I wonder what a futile time and life we, humans, live in. 

An influencer who used to travel shared her demotivated spiritless feeling, opening up her vulnerability. The fact that she still earns a comfortable income even in a difficult situation, I judgingly thought she was the last person to feel upset. 

Too early to judge, and it comes back to me that people struggle differently. 

I live in privileges. I feel it's not my place to feel conflicted and troubled about random stuff that might actually be in my head only. 

So, just like my clothes, I jail all these feelings up in the closed wardrobe.