Friday, September 21, 2012



I'm turning 21. This is the phase in my life that I should be immersing myself in anything possible. Explore. Get myself into shit. Then step out and get over it. Explore again. Be reckless. Laugh. Nothing should be taken too seriously anyway. I should be making my youth count, and I should never touch the ground. Most importantly I should be happy, except I'm not. At least not recently, at least not today, at least not now. I'm too busy trying to cope with my inadequacies, my inferior complex, my fears, and my crippling need for sincere reassurances.

Milan Kundera once said we all need someone to look at us, and we can be divided into 4 categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under. I am in category 3.

I don't know how to be a better person. I don't know how to walk around with a glow on my face, exuding confidence. I dont know how to ever be sure of myself and to ever be convinced that I am actually good enough. It seems like I can't measure up, and there's nothing I can do to ever compensate for whatever it is I'm lacking.

But I swear the day I learn to fly I'm never coming down.

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