(no subject)
It's strange to see people happy that you never wanted to see happy.
I always wished ill on those that left me, or left me behind; I say behind because I still feel like I haven't gone anywhere. I am still here. It's funny, but they're still here too, the same shitty life that I wasn't happy with, they're living it.
And they're married now, or getting married, with the same reservations, the same quaint notions of what life is suppose to be like, but it's not. It's not. Life isn't what they imagined, isn't what I imagined. And I am happy again for a second. Then sad. Sad because I still didn't win. I didn't set the terms, I didn't see them off into their unhappiness. They set sail without me. Their struggle, it was their own choice, and it frustrates me.
Am I happy? Not really.
I could be making good money next year, great money the years after that. A masters, world travel, it's all there. But I am unhappy. What am I missing? Why am I so frustrated?
I am still only happy when I write...
I always wished ill on those that left me, or left me behind; I say behind because I still feel like I haven't gone anywhere. I am still here. It's funny, but they're still here too, the same shitty life that I wasn't happy with, they're living it.
And they're married now, or getting married, with the same reservations, the same quaint notions of what life is suppose to be like, but it's not. It's not. Life isn't what they imagined, isn't what I imagined. And I am happy again for a second. Then sad. Sad because I still didn't win. I didn't set the terms, I didn't see them off into their unhappiness. They set sail without me. Their struggle, it was their own choice, and it frustrates me.
Am I happy? Not really.
I could be making good money next year, great money the years after that. A masters, world travel, it's all there. But I am unhappy. What am I missing? Why am I so frustrated?
I am still only happy when I write...