log seven

The perpetual feeling of uselessness that overcomes one when they fail to meet the imaginary and often unnecessary goals that they set for themselves is horribly, horribly, horribly overwhelming. That’s what I think. If it feels so awful on such a small and insignificant scale, I can’t imagine how devastating it’ll be for me in the future when I inevitably come short of the basic expectation I’ve set for myself.

I can’t write something useful. I have no experience- I have seen nothing, really, and I am so enclosed in my bubble of comfort that I have nothing to properly say about anyone.

My true flaw is settling for the bare minimum, but not deriving the insignificant mineral shavings of contentment that it comes with. I badly want to reach the real mines but I won’t, because I don’t want to expend life to travel there. It’s useless because I’ll end expending “life” on something else that yields no reward at all.

How I hate noise. I feel like I’m not improving at all. Not one speck of this is contest-worthy. As someone wise (me) once said, “What is the use of having the slightest inch of talent if you can’t capitalize off it?” How absolutely stupid.

Pollution of the mind is too prevalent. If I feel like this at the measly age of 17 then maybe there’s no real hope for me in the future. Am I doomed to be like this forever? Did I grow up too fast? I don’t know. If I feel more emotionally mature than an adult, are they childish or am I too grown?

The reason I will fail writing is because I can’t even hold a coherent story. My mind is jumping. It’s leaping, doing all kinds of weird acrobatic stunts, and it can’t stay in one spot enough for me to dedicate more than five sentences to one idea.

Maybe it speaks to how narrow-minded I am in reality while considering that the only topic I can properly write about is myself.