Inferiority. You don’t feel it all the time, just like how you don’t feel sad or under-accomplished all the time.
It strikes you at the moments you least expect it to.
The effects are lingering and pervasive.
It makes you question the validity of your existence, and the basis of your daily confidence.
It makes you wonder about the things you don’t usually ponder, and look twice into the mirror and still think to yourself, “I am not good enough.”
It makes you afraid of meeting another: could they see the fear behind your mask of certainty; the tremor behind your beams; the insecurity behind your straightened back and relaxed shoulders?
It makes you think less of yourself (than you already do).
It makes you wonder if you should indulge or skip the next meal. It makes you vulnerable to the views of other people that should have never mattered. It makes you consider criticism (that may or may not be valid), and agree with them, because in the depth of your consciousness, these are the same criticisms that secretly haunt you in your dreams.
Inferiority. It makes you question why you are loved and worry about the sustainability of that love.
Because in the abyss of momentary inferiority, you are never enough.
Inferiority. We keep it at bay with our conscious logical minds and we strut confidently in our amours of sanity and reassurances. Yet it creeps in every now and then, like slow acting toxins, its effects insidious and damaging.
Inferiority doesn’t strike me that often.
But when it does, I am nobody.