Annie D

Babydoll
2002-04-09 14:28:25 (UTC)

Collage

Maybe, just maybe, I'm the one placing all the
restrictions on myself. Because if I'm too busy being
perfect then the world won't see me. The real me is like
a scared and vulnerable little girl. So I think that this
desire for perfectionism is simply my mask to this
world.

Maybe I'm afraid that all of my stuff sucks, so I don't
want to continue to write and just come up with more
things that suck.

Why is it that the only things that I can write about are
very short little pieces? Why can’t I ever seem to write
anything grand? According to the definition of a short
story, I can’t even manage to write one of those! I
guess that I’ll never be a true writer.

I wish that I could write stuff like that, things that are
good enough to be published. Because that was one
of those stupid childhood dreams, to grow up and
become an author and get published.

Somewhere deep down, I still have my childhood
dream of being an author.

I’m trying to get over the cynical bitch mode of writting,
but apparently that's the only way I can write and still
have it be "realistic".

. . . everything just seems so stupid. People in the halls
talking about how wasted they got over the weekend
and about stupid aches and pains, kids taunting others
for some of the stupidest reasons in the entire world.
Meanwhile my whole world has come to a standstill . . .

I don't know what to do. It just feels as if my whole life
is tumbling down on top of me, like a great squall of
water and I can't breath, I'm being suffocated.

I continue to write about my tragic life. The thing is that
three weeks ago, my life might have truly been
considered tragic to me, but since the attack on
America, everything in my life seems so insignificant.
So my life is now no where near a tragedy.

I need to write on what happened, but I just can't. It's
too unfathomable, too tragic, too horendious, too
everything.

The sounds and images I see as hundreds of innocent
lives are lost are too tragic and horrific to write, too
graphic to be put down on paper with mere words.

As an American, it is to my honor to die for my country.
For after all "To die for one's country is to live forever."

I envision our armed forces preparing to go and do
battle, and wonder just how many lives it will take to
once again ensure our right to freedom.

Because to me this feels right, to fight for one's country.

You must have seen the pain written on my face, and
you asked me if I was all right. I said yes, but I haven’t
been the same since.

I’m not sure you really heard a single word that I said.
You must have been too wrapped up in your own
problems and sorrows to worry about mine.

Remember when we made that promise, to always be
there for each other? And remember each and every
time I kept my part of the deal? And remember how you
broke every promise you ever made to me, while I
continue to keep every single one, no matter the
suffering I may go through.

I will silently stand here, taking it all in, waiting for a
chance to be heard by the one I care for the most.

. . . free writing. It's a way to get your inner-self and your
inner-voice out, but doing it unconciously. By re-reading
them, it is possible to see the real you that you might
not have even realized existed.




Ad: