Honesty is dangerous. It really is.. the simple act of saying, “I don’t need you right now, I’m not happy anymore, I expected more…I failed…etc.” Yet being dishonest is far worse. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it and started to think of myself, more like viewing myself from the outside in. I think of me…from the me of a few years ago and realize I tend to recognize this girl, fractions of her, but she is a stranger to me. Makes me ask myself how I let things get this way to begin with. Did I see things coming and chose not to stop it or did I make things happen because that is exactly where I wanted to end up at the time? Time…such a fluid concept of the mind and torment on the body.
I realize I became dishonest because I was afraid of failure. I hope that when I read this back to myself I can be more forgiving of my fears and more trusting of my success(es?).
I am guilty of over analyzing through the smallest details but that makes me egocentric and narrow minded at times. I’ve try to detach from the emotion and be more understanding of the perspective of others against my own…in that I know I’ve gotten better. I’ve tried to do what is right and just but sometimes that is not enough.
The moment I became dishonest, things changed. I’ve stopped writing, reading, and singing. I used to write music. In many ways melody is what helped me find solace, peace, love, anger, bittersweetness…nostalgia. Music drove me to the past and helped me understand where I stood. I left it behind in many ways. Little things. It is the little things that killed me in the end.
I used to be more connected to myself. I used to be more fearless, less cautious, more daring, less full of excuses. I used to be complete on my own…and now my little pieces are missing and I tend to feel lost. Whether realistic or not, I feel it. Now I’m in a quest to find me. Remember me. Re-build the relationship with the girl I only recognize but can’t seem to remember.
Being dishonest with myself was far more dangerous. I should have said, “I am not happy”. I should have risked and said, “I’ll take that job instead”. I should have continued to write and seek to fulfill my interest for the sake of me, and let the chips fall where they may. I should have not molded myself to what I thought the world wanted of me, like I always seem to do. I should have painted more, sang more, connected more, loved my friends more. I should have acted more and planned a little less.
It was the fear to fail, as it often is; drove me to detachment of the self. I was afraid of not being accepted. As unapologetic and assertive as I can often be, I wanted to fit in. Now I embrace the idea that I may never be able to. And that will have to be ok…
My thought is this…
I will write more.
I will paint more.
I will sing more.
I will love more.
I will do more and plan less.
I will learn that I not always have to mold myself into others, but I should choose my paths with caution nonetheless.
I need to learn to be honest and accept the consequences. It will make my world a better place. It will set me free.
I realize I became dishonest because I was afraid of failure. I hope that when I read this back to myself I can be more forgiving of my fears and more trusting of my success(es?).
I am guilty of over analyzing through the smallest details but that makes me egocentric and narrow minded at times. I’ve try to detach from the emotion and be more understanding of the perspective of others against my own…in that I know I’ve gotten better. I’ve tried to do what is right and just but sometimes that is not enough.
The moment I became dishonest, things changed. I’ve stopped writing, reading, and singing. I used to write music. In many ways melody is what helped me find solace, peace, love, anger, bittersweetness…nostalgia. Music drove me to the past and helped me understand where I stood. I left it behind in many ways. Little things. It is the little things that killed me in the end.
I used to be more connected to myself. I used to be more fearless, less cautious, more daring, less full of excuses. I used to be complete on my own…and now my little pieces are missing and I tend to feel lost. Whether realistic or not, I feel it. Now I’m in a quest to find me. Remember me. Re-build the relationship with the girl I only recognize but can’t seem to remember.
Being dishonest with myself was far more dangerous. I should have said, “I am not happy”. I should have risked and said, “I’ll take that job instead”. I should have continued to write and seek to fulfill my interest for the sake of me, and let the chips fall where they may. I should have not molded myself to what I thought the world wanted of me, like I always seem to do. I should have painted more, sang more, connected more, loved my friends more. I should have acted more and planned a little less.
It was the fear to fail, as it often is; drove me to detachment of the self. I was afraid of not being accepted. As unapologetic and assertive as I can often be, I wanted to fit in. Now I embrace the idea that I may never be able to. And that will have to be ok…
My thought is this…
I will write more.
I will paint more.
I will sing more.
I will love more.
I will do more and plan less.
I will learn that I not always have to mold myself into others, but I should choose my paths with caution nonetheless.
I need to learn to be honest and accept the consequences. It will make my world a better place. It will set me free.
