I'm sure I'm going to regret writing this, but I've got to put it out there... got to get it out of my head.
I just wrote this in my kitchen.
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I once had a dream for this life.
I once throught I'd get inspiration out of more than just literature and cigarettes at 3 am.
Matin Luther King had a dream.
Much greater and much more widespread than this one.
But no.
This means so much more to me than a speech written on a poster that I stood in front of in 9th grade English class.
It's funny how all of my hopes and dreams,
Go back to that year.
The year I changed.
Was it for the better,
Or ultimately for the worse?
I thought I'd be living in California.
A life spurred on by images from The Travel Channel and early morning workout shows.
It all seemed so wonderful and beautiful.
It all seemed like everything I'm not.
In my dream I was social,
With bunches of friends that meant the world to me,
But my world doesn't expand beyond the Mitten.
The place taht fueled these hopes and dreams.
A place that I discovered doesn't fit in with California.
No one there is bitter on the outside.
They work out freely,
Trying to improve on what I see as perfection.
It's funny what a paradox that is.
What's funnier is that I don't even know what paradox really means.
It just sounded right.
So is this me?
Am I nothing more than furious scribbles at 3 am?
Am I no deeper than the Californians?
I don't know.
But I'm being honest,
Instead of what I normally do,
Which is trying to sound pseudo-intellectual to impress people.
Why did I want that life?
Why did I want to be something that decidedly isn't me?
I'm no better than all the anorexic perfectionists out here.
Except that I'm obsessed with the inside,
Because I'm already as thin as I want to be.
Honesty is not pretty.
And neither am I.
Oh, I pretend to be the quiet, modest girl that's really great.
But the truth is, I'm stupid. And I'm scared. And I fuck up my life for some unknown reason.
And I know what they think of me.
I know all THEIR hopes and dreams.
My mom was POSITIVE that I would graduate high school.
Because I wasn't as messed up as the other kids.
But no.
I am, moreso in fact.
I just hide it really well.
And I'm devestated at disappointing my father.
Which is why I pointedly avoid his phone calls.
I can't stand the questions.
And I can't stand to face the way our relationship crumbled after I turned out to be a fraud.
I'm not the smart one.
And I'm not an adult.
He was right about that one.
I can't stand the distance between us.
He was once my savior.
I went running to him after my heart crumbled.
And now...
I sit on my couch and pointedly ignore his phone calls.
Tears are falling now.
Because I just want what was.
I want to talk to him and not be worried when he's going to ask me if I've got my license yet.
I want to talk about things that matter to the both of us.
Because we're one and the same.
Except he's made more of his life.
He's got the ambition that I decidedly lack.
I'm tired of writing now.
I want a more fruitful escape.