Well screw this. I'm going to go join Starfleet.
Not secret: I’m incredibly egotistical and obviously, I totally love it.
Secret: I never feel (or felt) that I make the right choices. About anything. And it tears me up like nothing else.
As I grow older, I see some things a little more tragically and a little more critically, and economically then I did previous and it doesn’t help this irritating complex I have of not ever really trusting myself. For instance, I don’t really know if going to Emory was the right choice, or even the best one, for so many reasons (real or imagined) and I also don’t know if it was necessarily wrong either. I’ve been considering whether or not I should transfer after this next year. And I don’t know if that’s good/right/wrong/bad either. I really don’t fucking know anything anymore. This state of limbo is driving me off the edge.
It also bothers me that my parents have gotten nicer to me over the years but they still don’t believe in me.
It bothers me too that when someone asks me if I’m content I don’t know how to reply.
Sometimes when I suddenly desire a change in my life, I do one of three things: 1. Shop myself into a state of numbness. 2. Cut my hair in some wildly unpredictable fashion. 3. Clean my room.
I find it silly that of all times I picked now to do number three. As I'm going through old papers, worksheets, and notes that I took during my high school years, I think to myself just how odd it is that I'm spending an hour or so of my life cleaning a room I will most likely never live in for more than 4 weeks at a time at the most for the rest of my life. Most of my things are covered in 5 layers of dust, even.
I had so much hate in me. It's shocking and almost nauseating, even to me, to even think about it. Look at that: Just the thought of me makes myself dizzy. I honestly can't fathom how it was I managed to crawl out of that terrible time still in one semi-recognizable piece. I sometimes wonder - if I was how I am now, back then, would I be a completely different me right this moment? Would things have turned out differently? And would that be for better or for worse.
I realize that I wrote a lot. Piles and piles of old stories and poems I wrote for classes, in between classes, and just for the sake of my own pleasure. I knew each one intimately, like they were actually people or something ridiculous like that - most of them I just had to glance to be able to remember every single detail about every single sentence, word, comma. I do end up reading a select few, merely out of what I suppose one could call a sick fascination for self-abuse.
The two things Political Science professors tell their Major students are: 1. Don't feel. We don't care about what you feel. We don't care about your opinions. 2. Don't think in Ex Post Facto about anything. It'll screw you over, make your brain go all bibbly as the history of the world and its 6 billion wretched people suddenly burst into chaos.
I am obviously not toeing either of those lines right now.
Secret: I never feel (or felt) that I make the right choices. About anything. And it tears me up like nothing else.
As I grow older, I see some things a little more tragically and a little more critically, and economically then I did previous and it doesn’t help this irritating complex I have of not ever really trusting myself. For instance, I don’t really know if going to Emory was the right choice, or even the best one, for so many reasons (real or imagined) and I also don’t know if it was necessarily wrong either. I’ve been considering whether or not I should transfer after this next year. And I don’t know if that’s good/right/wrong/bad either. I really don’t fucking know anything anymore. This state of limbo is driving me off the edge.
It also bothers me that my parents have gotten nicer to me over the years but they still don’t believe in me.
It bothers me too that when someone asks me if I’m content I don’t know how to reply.
Sometimes when I suddenly desire a change in my life, I do one of three things: 1. Shop myself into a state of numbness. 2. Cut my hair in some wildly unpredictable fashion. 3. Clean my room.
I find it silly that of all times I picked now to do number three. As I'm going through old papers, worksheets, and notes that I took during my high school years, I think to myself just how odd it is that I'm spending an hour or so of my life cleaning a room I will most likely never live in for more than 4 weeks at a time at the most for the rest of my life. Most of my things are covered in 5 layers of dust, even.
I had so much hate in me. It's shocking and almost nauseating, even to me, to even think about it. Look at that: Just the thought of me makes myself dizzy. I honestly can't fathom how it was I managed to crawl out of that terrible time still in one semi-recognizable piece. I sometimes wonder - if I was how I am now, back then, would I be a completely different me right this moment? Would things have turned out differently? And would that be for better or for worse.
I realize that I wrote a lot. Piles and piles of old stories and poems I wrote for classes, in between classes, and just for the sake of my own pleasure. I knew each one intimately, like they were actually people or something ridiculous like that - most of them I just had to glance to be able to remember every single detail about every single sentence, word, comma. I do end up reading a select few, merely out of what I suppose one could call a sick fascination for self-abuse.
The two things Political Science professors tell their Major students are: 1. Don't feel. We don't care about what you feel. We don't care about your opinions. 2. Don't think in Ex Post Facto about anything. It'll screw you over, make your brain go all bibbly as the history of the world and its 6 billion wretched people suddenly burst into chaos.
I am obviously not toeing either of those lines right now.