Trouble in literature.

i found this on my computer recently. it was written at the beginning of the year. it is truly maudlin.


i have never pretended any understanding of literature i have not intersts in that direction the pieces of writting i enjoy are the ones that touch me emotionaly and intellectually a nicely crafted line is enough to bring me to tears and yet here i already feel out of my depth, its been a while since i felt like this. i dont like it. not since GCSE maths have i felt like i was barely keeping my head above water, this was supposed to be my element i was supposed to flurish here and yet im drowning here, again
i talk too much, thrust myself too far forward, yet retreat from people. i critisised a friend for not making friends and yet i am so much worse. if i let myself think too hard about my lonileness i will crack, everynight my mum rings me and i dutifully tell her i am working hard when in reality i am staring at my books wondering when i got left behind.
i thought i could do this.
but the funny thing is, if i cant i don't really have any other options i dont care enough to study politcs not qualified enoght to study history and i can't act well enought to study drama on its own
i miss m friends who made me feel funny, smart and confident
without someone else independance is and diplomatic way of saying lonley
did my teachers know i would find this so hard?
why didnt they warn me?
arogant.
thats what my english teacher called me.
he was right
there is nothing worse than self awareness. the realizeation of ones inadequacys and short commings. my stomach rebells at the thought i will never be who i wanted to be .
these are dark moods. i thought i had escaped them for nearly two years i didnt have that little black hole in my chest sucking out the goodness, the joy and life
but its back, with a vengance
it is times like these that make me what to drink. to plug the hole tempoarliy and quiet the voice that whispers in the back of my head that i am not enough.