//Omnia muntantur, nos et mutamur in illis//All things are subject to change, and we change with them//
I am not who I was nearly three and a half years ago. Who would be, especially in the years of transition between high school and college? Who am I? I do not know, and instead of finding out who I am, I question and expect someone else to dictate who I am. I do not want to be a psychologist, I truly could care less. I want to write. But like all things in my life, I can write, I can write exceptionally well, BUT, I am not great and I cannot maintain my writing nor any other skill for long before drifting away into some meaningless task. I feel somewhat cursed, or at least I feel as if God is floating around perpetually smirking and teasing me. I can sketch and paint, but not well enough to be an artist; I can write, but not well enough to be an author or poet; I can sing, but my range is limited now, and my voice not what it used to be in my youth; I can figure out difficult equations, but not without inconsistancy and difficulty; and I have no true drive in life. Life seems to just pass me by; I sit here and I feel every second of my life pass me by, I taste the minutes as they are consumed and lost to the fleeting and disolving memories. And all I do is sit here and record my melodramatic and pitiful mundane existence. Pathetic, but true.
//sic transit gloria mundi//
I am not who I was nearly three and a half years ago. Who would be, especially in the years of transition between high school and college? Who am I? I do not know, and instead of finding out who I am, I question and expect someone else to dictate who I am. I do not want to be a psychologist, I truly could care less. I want to write. But like all things in my life, I can write, I can write exceptionally well, BUT, I am not great and I cannot maintain my writing nor any other skill for long before drifting away into some meaningless task. I feel somewhat cursed, or at least I feel as if God is floating around perpetually smirking and teasing me. I can sketch and paint, but not well enough to be an artist; I can write, but not well enough to be an author or poet; I can sing, but my range is limited now, and my voice not what it used to be in my youth; I can figure out difficult equations, but not without inconsistancy and difficulty; and I have no true drive in life. Life seems to just pass me by; I sit here and I feel every second of my life pass me by, I taste the minutes as they are consumed and lost to the fleeting and disolving memories. And all I do is sit here and record my melodramatic and pitiful mundane existence. Pathetic, but true.
//sic transit gloria mundi//
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
rebeldaisy:
thank you, it wasn't crude at all.
miyu:
Hehehe.....maybe 