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Tuesday, November 23, 2010
I must not put myself above all else.
I must not.
Even if everyone else place themselves above me.
Does writing give me a better perspective than others?
I think so.
Yet I cannot help but bring myself to think that I seem to be the only one who keeps adapting and changing to suit others.
I try to convince myself of this motto of mine almost everyday: Be afraid not, what others think of you. It's what you think of yourself that sets your esteem.
Yet my esteem is such an all time low.
What is holding me up; is exactly what I force myself not to believe...
that people actually think better of me than what I think of myself!
Pathetic.
Drawn into a past that I cannot get rid of.
People move on.
They stop feeling sorry for you.
They stop giving you chances because of pity.
They forget. They get interested in other juicier news.
Yet my time stays frozen at the point I broke.
It's really just me.
I'm convinced.
And I am forcing everyone I know to remain where I stood.
It's impossible.
I think this is why I'm miserable.
And will forever be.
I can't get back the things I've lost.
But I've gained new objects that seem more important.
Still the scar etches deep in my heart.
The occasional twinge that I feel at the slightest pull of memory.
Do you get that sometimes?
That is... provided you've been there before like I did.
Hell.
I need to gather my thoughts before I carry on writing; lest I regret what I write.
This is; after all, a public journal. Not my private garden of solace.
Sigh.
I must not.
Even if everyone else place themselves above me.
Does writing give me a better perspective than others?
I think so.
Yet I cannot help but bring myself to think that I seem to be the only one who keeps adapting and changing to suit others.
I try to convince myself of this motto of mine almost everyday: Be afraid not, what others think of you. It's what you think of yourself that sets your esteem.
Yet my esteem is such an all time low.
What is holding me up; is exactly what I force myself not to believe...
that people actually think better of me than what I think of myself!
Pathetic.
Drawn into a past that I cannot get rid of.
People move on.
They stop feeling sorry for you.
They stop giving you chances because of pity.
They forget. They get interested in other juicier news.
Yet my time stays frozen at the point I broke.
It's really just me.
I'm convinced.
And I am forcing everyone I know to remain where I stood.
It's impossible.
I think this is why I'm miserable.
And will forever be.
I can't get back the things I've lost.
But I've gained new objects that seem more important.
Still the scar etches deep in my heart.
The occasional twinge that I feel at the slightest pull of memory.
Do you get that sometimes?
That is... provided you've been there before like I did.
Hell.
I need to gather my thoughts before I carry on writing; lest I regret what I write.
This is; after all, a public journal. Not my private garden of solace.
Sigh.