I’m conflicted. Again. I always am. I constantly second-guess myself, question my perceptions, and condemn my own actions. I dream of a life far from myself, but I don’t really think I’m capable of such things, and, when I think of what I am now–what I have–I know that I’ll never be happy, and I get so very, very low. Shit. I’m being vague again.
I don’t write because I tell myself that everything I produce is shit. I’m afraid that I’ll never be any better than that swotty little 15-year old–who read so much, was overly dramatic and oh so pretentious–and could only manage to produce overblown vignettes filled with clichés and her own naivety. I want the things I create to be beautiful. I want everything I do to be the best there is. I want to be perfect, and I am definitely not perfect.
Dear readers, I’m truly sorry for such a melancholic, self-absorbed, and piteous post. I just needed to get that off my chest. I promise, next time, you’ll see the happy.