DEMARCATEDD

I guess I am not good enough. I was fatuous to believe that I was minimally decent and fitting. But hello, this is the brutal reality. R-e-a-l-i-t-y is not for the faint-hearted, weak minded and the ignorant.

Ignorance: extension of the gullible. Hello M.R, rolling, here to devour unassuming dorky kids. 

 Hey Mr. Willy Wonka, I am still waiting for my golden ticket to your Chocolate Factory. What am I supposed to feel? What am I supposed to write? Sometimes, I really feel like my words are meaningless. Everything. Mr. Wonka could beguile with his chocolates, could charm the whole world with his craft. And me? I can’t paint the esoteric, surreal images in my dreams, can’t evoke and film the stories I want to share. I can’t even craft a sentence to articulate these circling thoughts, this quagmire of emotions.

 I will always be second-rate. My sister ascribes that I am an unemotional robot, hackneyed of feelings. And I see the truth in her opinion. However, the very act of writing about my lacking worth is highly ironic in itself. I am being emotional right now. I don’t know, I like to talk in circles and tangents because it distracts me. Distracts me from emotional chaos. I can’t corralled my own emotions, can’t even corralled my own thoughts. I like writing about circles, about anything, about metaphors and allusions or even on the word itself (W-O-R-D) to distract myself. This is depressing.

I will never be good enough. I harp on techniques but fail to address myself. I fail to hold the mirror upright and stare straight back at my reflection. This is what happens to disappointed dreamers.