(no subject)
You're eyes do not deceive you if you saw a post here from me before. Always been so vainly critical, idiotic worries biting my nails as I lay down words hoping that they flow as they should and read as they should. When truly who am I writing for? I think I've completely taken myself out of the picture and started writing for an audience and it's not earned me any acclaim. Why does it hurt to care? And to be bitter and hold distain doesn't bring you any misinterpretations of the heart. I used to never care what people thought of me, of my words, of my pretences. I existed for self and the journals was my expressive outlet. If it reached or touched others I was pleasantly pleased because it's always nice to feel others can relate to you and you aren't alone in this world. But there is this part of me that still feels alone and I know it is something I will always harbor. I have my doubts and insecurities just like the rest of you. I live day to day and think up new ways to express myself but I always fall short in my own eyes. It doesn't matter how brilliant others perceive me to be..I still don't see it. So I push myself. I try to prove things to myself and when I push too hard that's when I fall and bruise my face. I've fallen down again but this time I actually saw where I stumbled and I may be able to avoid the obstacle should it happen again. I need to trusts my instincts again, I have failed them and I don't care much for who that made me become. Were it not for a certain few I would have faded into the backdrop and been nothing but a fond memory to some. At least I hope that my memory would be fond. There are so many who I don't speak to as much as I used to anymore but i haven't forgotten any of them. I often wonder if they have forgotten me.. It's easy to feel forsaken. It's also easy to get wrapped up in your own comforted world that you forget there is anything outside it's padded walls. And screaming and yelling sometimes isn't enough to bring the faint call of wolves to your door. I'm the one who swallowed it back, I've been choking for a long time and waiting for someone to come pat me on the back. Is it any wonder that I'm still breathing? I took some time away to renew, to reinvent or perhaps it was just to renew something that was already there. Something that was missing. Is it strange to miss a blackened soul? Is it odd to requite with obstinace? I liked the man I once was... I'm happy to see his return.