Progression of a Writer; day 24

The following note was written in April of last year. I can no longer recall where I was and who I was with. Do we become disconnected from our past? Or does it continue to haunt our present?


I sit here contemplating if I am in fact wasting time. If I should be doing something better with the moments that pass by into memory. I see opportunities and achievements surround me, yet with none to call my own, my insecurities and loneliness take hold.

I begin to feel uncomfortable at first. A sensation that I can’t sit in place, that my shirt is too tight against my chest. Sitting here I feel so uncertain about who I am. Why did I choose to sit here? What did I hope to accomplish?

I realize a hopelessness that I have kept at bay for days at a time rise to the surface to drag me under the swelling fear that I will accomplish nothing. That I am fated to forever be mediocre in this world so bright with the talents of others.

The feeling makes me want to run far away from this place.

I meet someone who I once knew and admired and I feel like a stranger. Such disgust I feel in my fear of the darkness. A black emotion that is void of all reason and logic.

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