What’s Wrong with Me / A Journal of Sorts / 8.12.16

I think I know what’s wrong with me.

In so many ways I feel as if I have messed up irretrievably. 

I let myself forget again and again that mistakes shape us. That behind every misstep, every faulted, every crack in the road, there is something to be learned,

But for once in my life, I’m finding myself wishing I wasn’t just shaped from misery or lacking. For once in my life, I just wish that I could be shaped from ambition, but like so many other things, I’m deficient… I’m ambition deficient.

I am one of those people who restarts a level when I feel it’s irretrievably fucked, whether or not it truly is. If I could just hit a restart button I think I would. 

Because in 19 fucking years of life what the hell have I achieved. Yes, I’m aware it doesn’t matter, even remotely. But it just irks me to the fucking core how “average” I am. I’m not exciting or interesting. I’m not stunning, or talented, and I can’t even wake up in the morning.

I know in my heart of hearts that it doesn’t matter, but I can’t get it to go away. So I just rot

One response to “What’s Wrong with Me / A Journal of Sorts / 8.12.16”

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