I used to be a pretty good writer. At least I thought I was alright, When I was really down on myself, and well versed in the arts of self loathing and deprecation I would write endlessly. I would never stop, I would take the time to notate every single nuance and feeling that would pass through my mind but never have the courage to exit my mouth. I would re crate entire scenes in my mind and translate it to the screen. There was a period of time where I thought I could write short stories in my livejournal and convince myself that they were semi- palatable. They were okay but they had no consistency. This is one of the only excerpts from that series that I liked writing and found to be cohesive So I thought I would put it here:
Sep. 9th, 2007 | 02:01 am
He returned home briefly,
in the dead of night when the house was asleep.
Sitting quietly on the porch in his usual spot,
he softly whispered to himself.
"I know I'm unlovable,
you don't have to tell me."
He didn't feel a need to run anymore,
nor did he get the slightest urge to escape.
He just wanted to hide,
for now hiding from everything that troubled him was the best solution.
That is of course until he convinced himself of an even better one,
his mood usually determined the length of time.
Knowing where she always kept a spare key,
for he had disposed of his some time ago.
He let himself in,
it made it easier because she always left the porch light on.
Closing the door behind him he put his small pack down,
message received loud and clear.
This time last year was the shittiest point in my early twenties and some days I'm still reeling from the effects of my self loathing, Isolation, and shitty attitude. I still feel those feelings, and sometimes I don't think I'll ever find a solution. I also still don't know if it's good or detrimental. It's something I suppose I'll be handling for the rest of my days.