My dreams are beginning to reflect my apprehensions.
I want more than anything to do this and thrive.
All my eggs are in this one basket, and I can’t fail.
I can’t let them fall.
Everything I ever wanted is there, but I’m fraught with fear.
Because I’ll only have myself to depend on.
And I’m flighty and scary and an easily broken machine.
I’ve taught myself to prevail, but only at the fingertips of my beloveds.
But soon I’ll be on my own, in the urban wilderness, where temptation and danger dwells.
Despite my many flaws, I feel self-aware, and I know I am easily enraptured with danger.
I can barely walk steady on solid ground, I can barely cope with myself as it is.
And I worry thoroughly that my passion will peak and plummet.
I really should be working now on what I must do there, but instead I’m just hurt and fretting.
I’ve had so many nightmares this summer.
I’ve woken up too many times, in these past weeks, crying or terrified to even open my eyelids.
I used to think I was crazy, you know, the charming insanity of movies and books.
I hoped to be my own manic pixie dream-girl, but that isn’t how it works, and my self diagnosis seems to be coming true.
Many fine folks are crazy, that isn’t my worry.
But if it happens now, of all times, I won’t be able to trust that once steadfast soul of mine.
I need some stability.
I need a strong base to keep my balance.
Maybe it isn’t as good as I thought, to carry on trashing my past like this.
Perhaps, that should be my safety net, but regardless, I’ll be so far away.
I shouldn’t have revoked that once beloved title, but it isn’t at all me any more.
Selby Avenue is a glimmer in the back of my eye, that’s better left unrecognized.
In the last year, I’ve cried so much more than usual.
I spread myself thinly, and I’ll need to again, I can only hope I’ll be smarter.
I’ll at least try to be the angel I never could be, and if I crack under pressure, at least it’s better than not trying at all.
That dream may’ve been misery, but I’ll prepare, at least.
I have so much to do in so little time.
That’s the clutter that follows me.
But once again I have to re-evaluate my life.
Maybe I shouldn’t grasp for obsessions in lieu of what I need.
He said he wouldn’t even trust me to have my own belongings, since I’d obviously break them.
He’s right, and that’s what worries me.
The computer is running slow again.
I probably broke this, too, but unlike then, I can trust myself to fix it.
I will, because I am smarter than I once was, and I need to hold on to that ideal.
I am so much better than I once was, and I can’t just go down this easily.
I had to fight for my chance, and if I don’t keep fighting, I’ll simply doom myself to disaster and mediocrity.
All those words that once held value are reemerging again, and I can’t stop them, all I can do is cling to them and hold on to that meaning.
I have made myself better than I once was, and if that isn’t enough, nothing ever will be.
I have to go on with this, despite my idiot nerves.
Nerves are what troubled me in the first place, and I defeated them.
I can’t let it take me that long this time to vanquish my demons.
I should try to start now, and carry on, brandishing those imperfections to scare off that insecurity.
I have to do it over again, just as I am now, talk myself out of this rut into triumph.
I’ve known of others who’ve lived this way, since childhood, and if I can be like that, it means I’m the heroine of my story.
I can’t settle for anything other than that.
I’ll sip my coffee, push submit, fill out all those dumb-ass forms and keep with it, as I ought to do, forever.
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