Call me by my real name

Success stories

We are surrounded and motivated by success stories, consisting of heroes flying wearing capes from bad neighborhoods and backgrounds. We aspire to be success stories like them; beating the odds and becoming the One. 

We tell ourselves that diamonds are made under pressure and keep walking forward, blindly, towards a bright light that we call the future. 

But what if my story was never destined to be a success story? 

I have an irrational fear that I will not meet my final destination. That while seeing others run past me, I will lose my legs to the bear-traps and the snakes. 

Everyone is destined for something, that's why it's called a destination. 

But what if my destination in mind is not the one I actually get to? 

How do you keep running when you don't have a leg? Why do you keep running? What are you running for? 

Does a traveler's happiness come from the journey or from the final result?

Do we live to design our own success story or do we live to be happy? 

Does happiness come from success or is finding happiness the success? If happiness is success, then why are we taught to run against others? 

It's easy to tell others to take it easy, enjoy the journey, find happiness in the little things. But when you listen to those words and look around to find yourself the only one behind, your happiness  becomes your downfall. Your heaven becomes your hell. It's ironic. They tell us things that we are not supposed to follow, because if we do: we will fail. They tell us to have ambition and stay motivated, but if we do: we fall. When we fall, some of us never get back up. 

Oftentimes, I feel useless and like a waste of space. Like the air I am breathing is not something I deserve. I am unproductive, useless, not good enough. I feel so lonely when I'm with me. 

The air I'm breathing feels like it lacks oxygen. I can see my chest moving, but I don't feel the air. I want to stop and breathe and rest, but I'm scared I'm going to crash. 

I want to live a life, not run a marathon. 

I want to give up this marathon. I can't do this anymore. I don't know how long I can hold on. 

And once again I realize: loving yourself is the hardest and most sacred love of all. 

They don't care enough. Your pace is your own. They don't care, so you must care. They can't love you, so you must love yourself. 

I wish I could love myself. 

I'm so hungry.