It's not all sadness, really.
It evades even my understanding, the faces we play. Alone, secluded, I feel real, on a number of levels. I feel alone. It is quiet. I can't hold myself up to even the demented levels of achievement anymore. There is just a pile, motionless, unproductive, just existing. Elsewhere, real-world delimas cause me to push all that away. Wear the smile, moan the day, look as if I care as they do. Like snapping into the ideal, every day.
At work, nobody is going to listen to a quiet kid, self loathing and bleak. It becomes utterly unfathomable to be what I really am. And why shouldn't I? When you stumble across those lame helpless dogs, you don't experience curiosity, only spite. You begin challenging every bit of what they take for granted. Like they know, right?
Then again, there is the idea that we aren't such an easily summed up character, given only one portrayal. Those fascinated with playing with altered personalities, maybe we harbor that shifting attribute set, changed by inputted variables, controlled or not. I think environmental variables have always changed our view, restrictions or reactions.
The fact is, of course, I'm not always sad. In fact, most of the time, I think I am happy. There is just something reminiscent with staring at this screen, the same, that reflected my tears and frustration, as well as all those other emotions I poured into cups and drank away in the past. Now it is just a process I follow. I just don't know what else to do. It is easy to remind myself of how small all this is, but as small and feeble as it is, it is mine. It's all I've got. I'm going to stretch it, expand it into large backdrops that I can use. I am not one of great movements, or change. I don't hope those significant results will someday come, like some others. I only smear myself across the field, letting is soak in, giving me some time to be there. Like some sort of substance, acting larger than I really am.
At work, nobody is going to listen to a quiet kid, self loathing and bleak. It becomes utterly unfathomable to be what I really am. And why shouldn't I? When you stumble across those lame helpless dogs, you don't experience curiosity, only spite. You begin challenging every bit of what they take for granted. Like they know, right?
Then again, there is the idea that we aren't such an easily summed up character, given only one portrayal. Those fascinated with playing with altered personalities, maybe we harbor that shifting attribute set, changed by inputted variables, controlled or not. I think environmental variables have always changed our view, restrictions or reactions.
The fact is, of course, I'm not always sad. In fact, most of the time, I think I am happy. There is just something reminiscent with staring at this screen, the same, that reflected my tears and frustration, as well as all those other emotions I poured into cups and drank away in the past. Now it is just a process I follow. I just don't know what else to do. It is easy to remind myself of how small all this is, but as small and feeble as it is, it is mine. It's all I've got. I'm going to stretch it, expand it into large backdrops that I can use. I am not one of great movements, or change. I don't hope those significant results will someday come, like some others. I only smear myself across the field, letting is soak in, giving me some time to be there. Like some sort of substance, acting larger than I really am.