I’m stuck in confusion of how I can think about death, sadness and all the darkness in the world when my life isn’t that bad at all. In fact it’s better than most, I have a loving family, friends and a roof over my head. Maybe I’m out of my mind or maybe I’m writing so negatively because I generally can’t write anything worth while in a positive manner, nothing that matters to me can be writing so happily because again I’m stuck in my own self pity and this self obsession is making me sadder than I ever have been. That’s the problem everything I write seems to have a haunting feel to it, like I just want to be the spooky thing among the internet. The confusion of where fiction ends and real life begins is getting small, the world is getting mean and the stories are getting hard hitting in a shocking way of truth.
My thoughts are so loud I can’t hear my music at full volume today, it’s confusion, worry and my crazy side that I frankly can’t push to the bottom of my body or the back of my head.It’s thoughts that I can’t explain because I don’t understand them, I don’t understand what they mean at all, not even a little bit. I don’t understand why I’m so wound up today, why I’m driving myself crazy with unpredictable expectations or the high mark focuses that I can’t seem to reach no matter how much I strain myself hoping. I feel myself slipping further and further away from what I need and no one to talk it through with, I know people around me care but they can’t understand or with hold the human reaction to give compliments or pieces of advice that don’t remotely link to my words and it doesn’t seem like I’m crazy is enough to say everyone wants evidence to put me in a sponge room and straight jacket.
I’m scared of what I have become from a slightly confident, slightly out going child to an extremely nervous, anxious and terrified teen. A teen that can’t bare the thought of changing careers because group interviews make me nauseous, highly panicky and extremely uncomfortable. The hardest thing I could ever do is sit in a room and talk about myself in a way that makes people want to buy my hours (so to speak) or even sit and say anything with 10 if not more pairs of eyes glaring at me expecting me to say something magically amazing or even nothing like the awkward madness that spills out of my mouth every time I’m surrounded by strangers. It seems like I’m lazy,that this pain and the constant feeling of failure for not being able to go through this , that it’s all made up to cover for my laziness, to cover for my failure and inability to change the thing that could be playing a part in my sadness.
I may not be normal but am I really crazy, am I really on the verge of lashing out in a psychopathic rage, well maybe not psychopathic but a rage just the same. A rage that lashes out on the people closest to me am I really that close to my inner demons. Or am I just too in to Dexter?
Maybe everyone else is the crazy one and the only sane person shufferling through life and death is the only one questioning everything that has ever happened and everything that ever will. Sitting alone, seeing what is really around the corner and what darkness or lightness is waiting at the end of the tunnel.