You see, I have a sad. I decided, today, I made all the wrong decisions in my life. I didn’t stick with jobs and passions when I should have. I quit things when I felt that people didn’t like me. Example I haven’t sung in like two weeks, because I was sick, and because I was writing. SO I decided that maybe I shouldn’t be singing.
Without Sara there is no one to sing with, and none of my musical friends want to invite me over to sing, I decide, because they don’t like me. That means I sing the same songs to myself and the songs I was writing, I decided, weren’t good enough.
I shouldn’t have left the museum, just because it was pointed out on my first day that no one wanted me there. And I could feel it against my heart and the hotel was pushing me away and I wasn’t able to work a full time job and work for free in film and no one liked me because I couldn’t pull my weight, I decided.
I came home and hid in a place where if people didn’t like me I didn’t care. It was just me. And now me and my cats. It just seems like everything I do is not good enough. The music isn’t good enough to take me outside of my livingroom, yes it makes me feel like a million bucks, but I’m alone. The writing keeps being rejected by publishers and myself and I think If nobody likes me: Why am I doing it?
I’m writing it because I have to, because it’s how I process, it’s how I figure out myself but if there were another way, a relationship where I wasn’t alone, would I still keep writing down my every thought my every feeling?
Well that’s a pitty party… I’ll bring the crying clowns. The point is those feelings are still alive in my heart. I still want to quit, like I did when I was twenty. Maybe I need to fight a little harder. Say it doesn’t matter if anyone who is any good thinks I suck, I still have to jump forward and do what I love.
I realized today that we watched tv and did homework when we were little. It’s been a hard habit to break. Writing was my way out. Writing is still my way out of being alone. Of nobody liking me.