~Her words were my poison. I used them to consume myself.
Disturbingly honest. Painfully strained. Carefully penned down. Dangerously addictive.~
A journal that landed in the right hands and told a whole story with words, no lips could speak.
Two...
Jealous: feeling or showing an envious resentment of someone or their achievements, possessions, or perceived advantages. (adjective)
Insecure: uncertain or anxious about oneself; not confident. (adjective)
I never really understood the difference between jealousy and insecurity. They're interlinked. Only if you're insecure about yourself will someone else's success produce feelings of envy in your mind. More correctly, in your heart.
But when I feel it, I don't know the difference. When I look at my best friend and the way everyone adores her, it somehow triggers this feeling of being incomplete but at the same time the want of revenge. It's like a mix of the two. But I convince myself that I'm not jealous. I don't want popularity, I just want to get by, I cover it up citing it as a mere fall in my self esteem that had nothing to do with my best friend really, it could have been anyone.
At the same time I know it couldn't have hurt the same if it wasn't her. So am I just insecure? Is that it? I always wonder.
Or am I just jealous and unwilling to accept it?
Maybe it's both. It doesn't make sense. I suppose, I don't make sense all the time.
I disappoint myself sometimes when I admit how jealous I am. Because I want her to have everything in the world and more. She deserves the best. More than the best if anything.
It's just my failure as a person. Is it bad that failure doesn't surprise me anymore? Should I expect any better from myself?
It was nice seeing her express things like jealousy, it just made her more human, more believable. I wasn't ready to put a face on this beautiful mind as yet but I loved the way she thought.
I could see how desperate she was for an answer but her helplessness, for some reason, made me smile.
Her sense of self doubt was assuring to a certain extent.
I was relieved. This couldn't have been someone pulling off a prank. The emotion was far too real to be faked, to be recreated by imagination.
The water droplets that had blurred a few letters had to have been tears. I ran my fingers over the letters. It was like touching a part of her soul.
It almost felt wrong. It was almost like I was watching her naked, scarred body— just this was worse. Because this was her mind. Her beautiful, raw, ideas. And for me this was just a book. For her it was her story.
I felt powerful. Her mind had exploded onto the pages of this book revealing herself to me.
She didn't even know who I was and I knew her deepest fears.
In a twisted way... It was a two way thing. She evoked some emotions in me which I had lost touch with.
I didn't like that bit.
The thought of her influencing me was scary to say the least. Change was scary.
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