PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Recently, I've had a serious issue, being a writer: I feel as though everything I say is totally insignificant, and that projecting my opinions or feelings is a waste of time - both for myself and for the person who might end up reading whatever swill bubbles up from my innards. I think this is due to how overwhelmingly negativity I've become. I'm having a severely hard time seeing the good in most things or most people, and it's lead others to dissociate with me because, well, who would want to be around somebody like that?

I've tried to ease myself back into vanilla journal writing, but it only serves to frustrate and, eventually, upset me. My outlook is bleak, to the point where discussing things like the afterlife or ethics with friends eventually leads to them halting the conversation because they just can't deal with how I perceive things. Some times I look back on things I've written and am alarmed at how I come off. I always think that I'm just being logical, but logic serves the pessimist, not the optimist. This is also why I've come to seek solace in the writings of Albert Camus; one of the few philosophical writers that I both actually understand and agree with.

All I can think about is finding love. It's all I ever dwell on during my waking hours. I don't often dream of it because I don't often dream. But I'm too scared to put in the honest effort because I've come to see myself as plague-like. I've driven women away by being open about how I see myself and the people around me, even after we'd been close friends for some time. It feels as though my heart has turned into a spiked fist made out of pissed off locusts. Not only am I the most sexually frustrated I have ever been in the whole of my young life, but I'm so desperately lonely that I constantly have quiz shows on when I'm at home so that it feels as though others are in the room with me.

Fun fact: I intended for this entry to be a collection of off-the-wall thoughts I've been having throughout the day, subjects of which range from online dating to facial hair to using Alfredo sauce on pizza instead of tomato sauce (delicious, sort of). But look what's happened: things have veered off into the personal, the dramatic and the tragic because I am so inundated with gloom and self-loathing that, when given the chance, it boils over and out of me like an unattended pot of noodles on the stove. Nobody wants to listen to me because they know that I will never stop talking if I'm allowed to start. People who meet me (or talk to me through social media) are apparently able to recognize this unfortunate personality trait almost right away. I don't know how to contain it other than to just stay away, which is all I've been doing since late last year. Staying away, holed up at home, smoking weed in an endless loop hoping that, this time, my emotions will STAY muted and I'll be able to just go on with my stupid life.

It's gotten to the point where I'm wary of even messaging women on whatever dating site I happen to be occupying at the time. Almost none of them respond anyway and when they do, they never maintain conversation, even if I've done absolutely everything in my power to be pleasant and inquisitive and conversational. There must be something about me, even after I've been distilled down to a simple and straight-forward online profile, that is an unbelievable red flag. I've been told that my moods are often palpable and that even a stranger could tell that I'm unhappy from afar, but I find this notion to be total bull shit, as much of the time when I'm out and being social, I'm as jovial and talkative as anybody else in the group. Make that double if I've been drinking (I'm a very happy drunk which, surprisingly, has yet to lead me to a life of hopeless alcoholism). For a time I held the opinion that women deserve to know about my shortcomings when deciding on whether or not I'm worth a date, but this apparently makes me the idiotic weirdo who will be alone forever.

Even through my depression and self-hatred, I've always been defiantly proud of remaining true to myself. The few instances where I've blatantly defied my own morality are the most regretted moments of my life. Now I'm told I must lie and fake my way to success with women. I have to pretend that I have this elusive "confidence" that everybody talks about. But I DO have confidence! I'm a damn good poet, and it comes so naturally to me that sometimes I wonder if I deserve praise considering how little time I spend on any one piece. In general, I am an intensely creative person who is also honest, generous, logical and healthy. At one point I was also the kindest person I knew, but my gloom and anger have gotten the better of me for a while now. I may just be damaged to the point where repairs would no longer even be viable, but it's hard to tell. It's hard to tell anything about yourself when it feels like the rest of the world would rather you remain quiet and still.

I don't have a certificate proclaiming and lauding my education. I don't have much money. Yet I'm proud of who I am, proud of the physique I've whittled down, proud of my talents and originality and proud of the fact that I have never once tried to alter myself in order to fit another person's opinion of what I should be.

Now I'm ashamed of myself for being who I am. And when I think of killing myself as I often do, I don't often imagine it being because I want my awareness to cease; I think of it as doing a favor for all the people around me for whom I must be such a bother.