In all honesty, the anxious part of me is glad it all fell short. But the passionate side of me hates that I can take pleasure in failure. The intelligent part of me is sick to my stomach how easily I let things take over my mind. And I am conflicted because I am happy and sad and content and furious.
I hate how I rationalize sometimes. I can fucking rationalize failing. I can fucking rationalize giving up. All for the sake of sanity and security. Maybe I am tired of it. I am tired of thinking and cheering myself up. I want to care. I don’t want to recover so easily. I want to feel that pain. I want to give a shit about anything besides myself.
When you are with me, do you really know me? I don’t know if anyone actually reads what I write but think about that honestly. When I am sitting next to you are you really talking to me or just a person mirroring you. Because I do that a lot. I don’t know what to say so I just ask questions in the flow of the conversation rather than what I really want to know. That infuriates me the most about myself. It’s like my consciousness is trapped in a robotic body on autopilot. Like no matter how loud I scream and yell, I am never heard. Like I am fucking watching my life from 3rd person perspective and yelling “Why the fuck is this dumb ass so boring and generic? I could have wrote a better character than that.”
There are times that I wish I could believe in God. Just so I had someone else to blame besides myself. So I can ask questions into the emptiness of existence rather than the loneliness of my consciousness. Sometimes I just want to go in the middle of a field and scream and stop containing myself.