Quarter life crisis
I play a lot of games. Some would say that I play too many. I say, "Who the hell are you to judge me?" No, not really, I take it as an attack on my being and sulk for a few days, never saying what I want to. I could say its a lack of confidence on my part, hardwired into my being early on, but that would be the easy way out. No, I should really man up and say my bit, but what if that offends someone? I can put up a great front of not caring, but every criticism hits home. Its like I'm starved for attention, craving the smallest positive review.
I like to write, but I never do any actual writing. I was told that I would be a writer when I grew up, I never believed it. Truth be told, now that I have a passion for it, I still have my doubts. My grammar is horrible at best and spelling has been on a steep decline over the past few years. The most I had ever immersed myself was in college. Those years were either the least or most productive I've ever had, depending on your viewpoint. I was drowning in depression and had latched onto a muse beyond compare. I didn't attend classes, instead opting to languish in my miniscule dwellings to write meager offerings to Her. I was fascinated by prose and poetry, thanks to the master Dante and his works, but never did any real research into structure. Hell, I never edited any of it, thinking to myself that it was perfect as it was "in the moment." Looking back, I'm ashamed at the poor construction, but when reading them, I couldn't be prouder. The were the moments where I was true to myself, and each one highlights a point in my life where I could have been happy. Of all my endeavours, I have only been encouraged in this, but only by two people. This is evidenced by the lack of readers here. Most people would call it quits, saying "Obviously wait I write it garbage, time to throw in the towel." The "passion" I have for written word keeps me going, but honestly, what's the point? (So far I've referenced my various English guides six times, and I can guarantee that there's still plenty wrong here.)
I wanted to write another review, but this seemed more fitting, like I had to get it off my chest. For anyone that had kept up with my writing over the past six years, they know this story all too well. I'll become dormant for a while, then unleash my pity piece as a way of release. I've lost count of how many I've done and how many have hit the garbage. I want something more out of life, but don't know how to get it. I'm lost and afraid to ask for help because I'll look like an idiot. I'm afraid I'm the only asshole who can't get it right, the one everybody is ashamed of knowing. That guy who seemed interesting at first, but turned out to be weird and embarassing to be around. I'm too self concious and need to let go, but I'm afraid. Conquering this fear has been a life long goal. I don't want to be insecure anymore. I want to write and be recognized, though this looks to be a pipe dream.
I am me. You are you. This is my quarter life crisis.
I like to write, but I never do any actual writing. I was told that I would be a writer when I grew up, I never believed it. Truth be told, now that I have a passion for it, I still have my doubts. My grammar is horrible at best and spelling has been on a steep decline over the past few years. The most I had ever immersed myself was in college. Those years were either the least or most productive I've ever had, depending on your viewpoint. I was drowning in depression and had latched onto a muse beyond compare. I didn't attend classes, instead opting to languish in my miniscule dwellings to write meager offerings to Her. I was fascinated by prose and poetry, thanks to the master Dante and his works, but never did any real research into structure. Hell, I never edited any of it, thinking to myself that it was perfect as it was "in the moment." Looking back, I'm ashamed at the poor construction, but when reading them, I couldn't be prouder. The were the moments where I was true to myself, and each one highlights a point in my life where I could have been happy. Of all my endeavours, I have only been encouraged in this, but only by two people. This is evidenced by the lack of readers here. Most people would call it quits, saying "Obviously wait I write it garbage, time to throw in the towel." The "passion" I have for written word keeps me going, but honestly, what's the point? (So far I've referenced my various English guides six times, and I can guarantee that there's still plenty wrong here.)
I wanted to write another review, but this seemed more fitting, like I had to get it off my chest. For anyone that had kept up with my writing over the past six years, they know this story all too well. I'll become dormant for a while, then unleash my pity piece as a way of release. I've lost count of how many I've done and how many have hit the garbage. I want something more out of life, but don't know how to get it. I'm lost and afraid to ask for help because I'll look like an idiot. I'm afraid I'm the only asshole who can't get it right, the one everybody is ashamed of knowing. That guy who seemed interesting at first, but turned out to be weird and embarassing to be around. I'm too self concious and need to let go, but I'm afraid. Conquering this fear has been a life long goal. I don't want to be insecure anymore. I want to write and be recognized, though this looks to be a pipe dream.
I am me. You are you. This is my quarter life crisis.
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