What was it you wanted?
We are the authors of our own lives.
I always say this; I mostly believe it.
But that is not necessarily enough.
What I fear is to write myself for the audience, rather than for me.
Pleasing the crowd is a lost quest for satisfaction.
Giving people what they want is so easy; instant gratification.
Give a little more, and suddenly you stand there empty-handed,
- empty-hearted.
I must learn to give everything and nothing, sometimes at the same time.
To pick my battles and, at times, to simply walk away.
Most importantly, I must separate the feeling of being needed from that of being wanted.
And understand that neither of them have anything to do with being convenient.
There's a time for compromising with yourself,
but I no longer have that time.
Perhaps this is my most crucial battle.
To stop waiting for your approval, to say no when you come for me.
To forget all the things I did because I thought I had to, but never wanted to.
To be able to do it all again without feeling resentful towards you.
But most of all, without feeling resentful towards myself.
I'm working on making mine a little bigger.
Just let me in, I'll make my own space.
"The only selfish life is a timid one.
To hold back, to withdraw, to keep the best in reserve
both overvalues the self and undervalues what the self is"
Sometimes we need friends to help us get over ourselves.
To see in such clarity what is and what can be,
Maybe most of all, why all the things I perceive as problems,
are just locked up boxes to which I have not yet found the keys.
Why expect to be something that I could never be?
When people continue to single me out for things I am trying so hard to oppress?
Am I an excerpt from my own life?
With pages ripped out, thrown aside, put away, so that only my favourite parts will remain.
Hoping- for what? for whom?
Should I acknowledge the fiction that I am?
Learn to navigate in this place called reality, which I am consistently denying?
Let things go, let people go that do not respect this framework?
Allow failures of feelings as well as real ones.
Would that trap me or free me?
I must be my own definition,
without adjusting for inflation.
Confession of a maverick.
I am reluctant to believe that everybody's destined to play a certain part,
that no matter what we do, we end up where we begin.
Actually, I think I violently reject that.
But the universe doesn't care what I believe, I know that.
I've played the same part in everybody's story.
Perhaps it's karmic retribution, because I am so determined to create my own one?
I am the one you don't notice, unless you are really looking.
Weird and intriguing, but unconventionally plain.
the strange one in the corner of your eye, close enough that you will see and remember.
Oh, you will remember.
Five years later I will be on your speed dial, solving all your problems.
I will make you feel good about all the bad choices you made.
I will reassure you for choosing that other girl.
Maybe I'll even say you're better off.
Possibly, I will be right.
Definitely, you will be wrong.
But it won't make a difference.
The story goes on.
And, quite frankly, it isn't your fault.
..and above all to difficulty
Once, long ago, I was heartbroken.
He looked at me and told me not to worry.
"It just takes longer for special persons to find the right one"
And though it was a cliché and he was a Latin lover, I was young and impressionable.
Suffices to say, it struck a chord.
But now I am starting to wonder.
How special can one person really be?
Did I just let those words define me because I liked their weight on my body?
Am I spoiled for life because I believed him?
And perhaps doomed to wander the world like this,
not knowing I am just like everybody else.
Only more difficult to please.
