kelland

I don't want to spare anymore tears. I am saving them for a rainy day. More and more, with each passing day, I am a loaded gun that sits on the shelf, unused and slowly gathering dust. The day you pick me up and pull the trigger, I will most definitely let you down. I will not exceed your expectations. I will waste away my bullets just as you request, but I won't strike a desired target or injure a fucking intruder. Just a useless defense mechanism rusting away the days and bottling some muted rage. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will sit at the window and examine the glass, wishing I could observe the world at all times from the naive safety. I want to know the people and things that I see. I want to reach out and touch them and tell them of my journeys and my thoughts and my friends and my pain, asking these things to never abandon me or forget to call or outperform my best efforts. I want to uphold a pedestal that never really existed.

Those who know me well know that for the past month, I have been battling a severe case of self-doubt. I am staring into the faces of figures I don't recognize. The results of my effort deceive me and taunt me and tell me that I am a just an ordinary, boring, stupid girl. I am trying. I'm not getting anywhere. Maybe it's not true at all -- maybe I lying to myself. Maybe I really am getting somewhere. Perhaps I just need to sit back and relax and realize that time will work out in my favor. Somebody tell me how I do this, because I am clueless. I have done a decent job of concealing my crumbling esteem. I have put on a happy face and brought it up as little as possible, but I can no longer disguise my feelings with a colorful remark or a hearty laugh.

I got the job at the pizza place. I am not going to tutor. I passed the task onto Sara.

I want to be excited about someone. Why the fuck do you feel the need to take that away from me? Is it so impossible for someone to like me? Am I incapable of luring one's interest and then actually sustaining it? You fucking tell me because obviously you know me better than I know myself. Why can't you just be fucking happy for me like you're suppose to, like all support systems are?

All my writing sounds the same these days.