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I sound like I'm 13 years old when I blathe. Inside, I feel like I'm every age. I feel ready to die and dying to live, and I feel jaded and trusting.
When I see myself, I see a betrayed child who is trying to protect everyone around her. I trust that people are worth protecting, and that they need and want it. on blathercriticisms, someone told me I carry the weight of the world and let it make me so sad. I would argue that I was sad beforehand, but the weight of the world somehow helps me justify my sadness.
When I was younger I read Anne of Avonlea. It gave me someone to reference myself against. But Anne got what she wanted in the end. She was happy. She dreamt and it came true. She got the family and the puffed sleeves and the boy she loved. She was beautiful and smart and funny and charming.
I search for that which will make me happy. But it all seems so worthless. I find special people and never tell them how I feel. I never trust myself enough to take hold of opportunities. I find the positive in everyone else's dire situations, but for some reason mine are simply too dire for that.
what bullshit. what makes me so special that the whole world is out to get me? what makes my problems so special that I agonize over them for years? There are sentences I have utterred in my life which have long been forgotten by others but which come back to haunt my idle mind in a moment of idealism.
And I'm so fucking Most Grandiloquent.
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