For time that I have wasted. . . .I'm a doubting Thomas
Another day, another pain.
Do not think that for one iota that I am complaining. This is an actual statement of fact.
I have bills to pay, a wife that won't listen to me, and friends that are successful, and I'm an uncle. Does anyone know what I should do? Didn't think so. I am just whelmed and to the point of cracking on all sides like a delicate fabrige egg that is kept under glass, I am just as fragile and precious.
My strength is not my own. I know this because I still get up and try to do the right thing, when it would be so easy to give in and hate life and follow the world's interjections of what peace and happiness are. Money, fame, social stature, these things are empty. I know all this, yet I suffer in a prison I feel I have contributed to since the beginning of its conception. Maybe my suffering is intended to strengthen me? I do not know.
I know that I am not going to last much longer.
My friends all know that I have a true potential and have yet to reach it. I lay awake at night and ponder, decisively, what my opening gambit should be for the next few days. Nothing is simple. No one likes to admit defeat, and no one likes to fail.
The two things I seem to do more often that not. Ironic.
I try so hard only to fail utterly and completely. Again and again it happens. My life shrivels before my eyes. Like a flower that only blooms in the moonlight, I can't find the nurturing atmosphere of a loving botanist to watch over me long enough to see me bloom. I do bloom, but only when no one is around.
Do not think that for one iota that I am complaining. This is an actual statement of fact.
I have bills to pay, a wife that won't listen to me, and friends that are successful, and I'm an uncle. Does anyone know what I should do? Didn't think so. I am just whelmed and to the point of cracking on all sides like a delicate fabrige egg that is kept under glass, I am just as fragile and precious.
My strength is not my own. I know this because I still get up and try to do the right thing, when it would be so easy to give in and hate life and follow the world's interjections of what peace and happiness are. Money, fame, social stature, these things are empty. I know all this, yet I suffer in a prison I feel I have contributed to since the beginning of its conception. Maybe my suffering is intended to strengthen me? I do not know.
I know that I am not going to last much longer.
My friends all know that I have a true potential and have yet to reach it. I lay awake at night and ponder, decisively, what my opening gambit should be for the next few days. Nothing is simple. No one likes to admit defeat, and no one likes to fail.
The two things I seem to do more often that not. Ironic.
I try so hard only to fail utterly and completely. Again and again it happens. My life shrivels before my eyes. Like a flower that only blooms in the moonlight, I can't find the nurturing atmosphere of a loving botanist to watch over me long enough to see me bloom. I do bloom, but only when no one is around.
posted by Clandestine at 2:05 PM
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