The Mask I Wear

I am not proud of who I am. I am not the person who I wake up every morning trying to be. Somedays I feel an overwhelming amount of self-loathing and self-doubt but I push it aside an act as if it's all okay. I rarely ever feel like I'm okay or even good. I often consider myself unreliable and likely to bring others down, especially in a group setting. I frequently feel like I haven't done enough but my participation, in my mind, is always the cause of setbacks and problems. I feel like I'm always fucking up. I have no confidence in my abilities and if anyone tells me they have high hopes or expectations for me, I'm convinced it'll all end in disappointment and failure. I can't believe in myself. I've lost hope for every achieving anything worthwhile so many times. It's a sad truth but the truth of it none the less.

I sometimes think I'm practically a curse on people and they'd do better without me in their life, so I withdrawal and close myself off. These last for indefinite periods of time and I feel hollow and empty when I do it but I keep doing it. I don't believe it's possible for anyone to have more hate for me than I have for my own self. People think I have a thick skin but really no insult, critisim, jest, or jab compares to anything I inflict on myself. I know I don't show it when I seem to have an easy laugh or smile. I wear a mask so well I should take up poker.

There are ideas, images, sounds, tastes, emotions, and experiences in my mind I want to share but it seems everytime I try, it never turns out right. I am frustrated by it because I don't know how to bring these things to life. I have the ideas but not the skill or resources. I can sacrifice the things many people seem to say are their ultimate goals in life – settling down into a stable, ordered life and raising a family – in order to focus solely on my creations. I've never had any intention of living a “stable” life of routine and guranteed comfort. They aren't motivations for me but I don't know exactly what I need in my life. I don't know if I ever will.

I don't believe creative people, especially writers, are lonely, as people say, but richer in different ways than people who shut away their creative sides realize. We see things in a different light, are moved by often overlooked beauty, and feel joy an sorrow in intense depth, and yet are scored for having our heads in the clouds when we are, in fact, living with all our senses. It's not a lonely, empty life, and we're not trying to fill the hollow voids of our existance with pretty pictures. Artists are trying to interpret their surroundings and their senses in whatever way best suits their experience.