Falling in love alone
Instead of looking ahead for bigger and better, I look to the present and to the past to satisfy my current needs and desires, despite the possible (and likely) disasterous outcomes. I'd rather stay content and comfortable than take a risk and hope for the best. The latter seems too scary. I don't like brushes with the unfamiliar.
Everyone tells me that I'm wasting my time, I'm being silly, acting foolishly, and settling for less than what I deserve. Most of the time, I shrug these comments off and repeat to myself that I know what I'm doing and I like where I'm at. It's the rare occasions where I agree with them that make me feel lke I should be doing more to change the current circumstances.
I know I'm not completely satisfied, but the fear of striving for better is greater than the dissatisfaction I feel.
I'm losing sight of my standards. In fact, I'm not sure I even have standards anymore.
While browsing through my grandmother's stuff over the weekend, I stumbled upon a box filled with letters that my grandfather wrote my grandma during WWII. He began every letter with things like "Hello my darling" and "Hello angel." Toward the end of every letter, without fail, there was a paragraph about how much he loves her. One line in particular has stuck with me, he said, "There is no place for me, except for near you."
Between reading those letters and studying the love poetry of John Keats, William Butler Yeats, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti in my English class, I'm left wondering where those men of this time are hiding? I'm starting to fear that they don't exist.
I feel like this is a pointless entry. Ugh.
Everyone tells me that I'm wasting my time, I'm being silly, acting foolishly, and settling for less than what I deserve. Most of the time, I shrug these comments off and repeat to myself that I know what I'm doing and I like where I'm at. It's the rare occasions where I agree with them that make me feel lke I should be doing more to change the current circumstances.
I know I'm not completely satisfied, but the fear of striving for better is greater than the dissatisfaction I feel.
I'm losing sight of my standards. In fact, I'm not sure I even have standards anymore.
While browsing through my grandmother's stuff over the weekend, I stumbled upon a box filled with letters that my grandfather wrote my grandma during WWII. He began every letter with things like "Hello my darling" and "Hello angel." Toward the end of every letter, without fail, there was a paragraph about how much he loves her. One line in particular has stuck with me, he said, "There is no place for me, except for near you."
Between reading those letters and studying the love poetry of John Keats, William Butler Yeats, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti in my English class, I'm left wondering where those men of this time are hiding? I'm starting to fear that they don't exist.
I feel like this is a pointless entry. Ugh.