when is the dawn coming?
I note that my back is bowed and hunched. Like the thin waif outside the warm restaurant where affluent people dine, I've been reading the entries of people far stronger than I. I put these people are on my reading list so that I may be inspired by their strength and skill. It's not working the way I had intended. Instead of asking myself "how can I be like them?" and then doing that, I ask "why am I not like that?" and slump in my chair.
I am on the outside looking in. I am beaten and broken. I have made myself this way. I do not know how to undo what I have done.
So much of me feels broken. My memory. My emotions. My adherence to the past because "that's what's made me what I am." My inability to look to the future for very long. My job history -- three months here, nine there. Memory seems to be the main thing. My memory is capricious and unpredictable. Sometimes I will remember things, and sometimes I won't. Even given the same conditions. I don't get it. I've never gotten it.
I realize that these are negative things I'm pointing out. For quite some time I have had a policy of not talking about negative things, so as to not give them strength. It hasn't really worked, though. I still have these things in my life, despite my not talking about them. I had hoped they would wither and die -- grass is greener when watered -- but they haven't. My mental garden is choked with weeds.
My back is straight when I write. It has to be; I can't type properly when hunched over. Maybe this is what I should be doing. There are so many writers, though. And I have no idea what I would write, aside from C-list blogger posts. I have no characters clamoring for attention, or worlds within my head, yearning to be extruded through my fingers.
I envy people with a sense of purpose. It's wonderful to know what you're doing and what you've been put on this Earth for. I've never been able to divine it. There have been no signs that I can divine.
Maybe it really is darkest just before the dawn.
I am on the outside looking in. I am beaten and broken. I have made myself this way. I do not know how to undo what I have done.
So much of me feels broken. My memory. My emotions. My adherence to the past because "that's what's made me what I am." My inability to look to the future for very long. My job history -- three months here, nine there. Memory seems to be the main thing. My memory is capricious and unpredictable. Sometimes I will remember things, and sometimes I won't. Even given the same conditions. I don't get it. I've never gotten it.
I realize that these are negative things I'm pointing out. For quite some time I have had a policy of not talking about negative things, so as to not give them strength. It hasn't really worked, though. I still have these things in my life, despite my not talking about them. I had hoped they would wither and die -- grass is greener when watered -- but they haven't. My mental garden is choked with weeds.
My back is straight when I write. It has to be; I can't type properly when hunched over. Maybe this is what I should be doing. There are so many writers, though. And I have no idea what I would write, aside from C-list blogger posts. I have no characters clamoring for attention, or worlds within my head, yearning to be extruded through my fingers.
I envy people with a sense of purpose. It's wonderful to know what you're doing and what you've been put on this Earth for. I've never been able to divine it. There have been no signs that I can divine.
Maybe it really is darkest just before the dawn.