To say the least...
I hate disappointing people.
And, 'Tis the season of disappointment.
I'm sorry.
I don't know if it's my fault, or if my circumstances just don't lend themselves to being able to fulfill everything people want of me. It just seems like there's been far more disappointment coming from me than anything else.
Heh. In a strange coincidence, They by Jem has begun to play on my computer. Irony abounds. Irony and disappointment.
Ugh.
More self doubt. More homesickness. More uncertainty.
I used to love Christmas. The period between Halloween and New Year's Day was a magical time for me. I mean, really magical. The chill on a windy autumn night felt like home, and the smell of fireplaces in the suburbs used to give me hope. Seeing my breath float away on a cold night when laughter caused it to fly from my mouth was more right than anything ever.
And now I hear it in their voices when I talk to them.
"No. I won't be there."
"Maybe in the spring."
"Maybe next year."
"Maybe some other time."
"Maybe next time."
I am sorry.
And I tell myself these same things. Maybe next year I'll be able to give everyone on my list something. Maybe next year I'll carve a pumpkin, or make a nice holiday dinner. Or feel like it's Christmas.
I'm spread too thin. Pulled too tight. The things that made me like myself are now transparent. I need rest. I need a recharge.
But, fuck self-pity. I shouldn't wallow in it.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Maybe.
And, 'Tis the season of disappointment.
I'm sorry.
I don't know if it's my fault, or if my circumstances just don't lend themselves to being able to fulfill everything people want of me. It just seems like there's been far more disappointment coming from me than anything else.
Heh. In a strange coincidence, They by Jem has begun to play on my computer. Irony abounds. Irony and disappointment.
Ugh.
More self doubt. More homesickness. More uncertainty.
I used to love Christmas. The period between Halloween and New Year's Day was a magical time for me. I mean, really magical. The chill on a windy autumn night felt like home, and the smell of fireplaces in the suburbs used to give me hope. Seeing my breath float away on a cold night when laughter caused it to fly from my mouth was more right than anything ever.
And now I hear it in their voices when I talk to them.
"No. I won't be there."
"Maybe in the spring."
"Maybe next year."
"Maybe some other time."
"Maybe next time."
I am sorry.
And I tell myself these same things. Maybe next year I'll be able to give everyone on my list something. Maybe next year I'll carve a pumpkin, or make a nice holiday dinner. Or feel like it's Christmas.
I'm spread too thin. Pulled too tight. The things that made me like myself are now transparent. I need rest. I need a recharge.
But, fuck self-pity. I shouldn't wallow in it.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Maybe.