The Writer Who Couldn't Write

I Give Up

I have decided to stop thinking. Thinking about my life leads to self-pity. Self-pity leads to tears. And tears lead no where.

I will still think about what I'm doing, I'll just be more pliable to others' will. I'll be like a clone from Star Wars. I can think, but I choose not to.

Now that I think about it, though, it's kind of shameful to me. Soren Kierkegaard once said, "People demand the freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use."

I believe that, but why does thinking have to hurt so bad? Not that it hurts to think, if that was so, I wouldn't be able to live. It just hurts me so much to think about something that I want and almost absolutely need that I cannot have.

I want someone to notice me. I don't mean a boy. I mean anyone. I want someone to continually give me advice and always be there for me. I want someone to search for me in a crowd, and as awkward as it is, I want someone to ask how I am doing and get an honest answer.

I know the last part is my fault, but at the same time it's not. Nobody has been that open with me that I can be that open with them.

All of my friends seem to have other friends that they worry about more than me, which I wouldn't mind, if they didn't do it in front of me and with me. I love them dearly, but I don't feel like I can talk about myself when that happens.

It doesn't help that my relationship with my parents has been ripped to shreds as of late. And all of my siblings are too young to understand anything. Literally, they don't understand Mama and Dada yet.

So I've decided not to think. Not to feel. To go through my daily life  as if there's nothing wrong. But reality is: there's nothing right.

I give up.