I Give Up

I will never not be alone. I will never be within the norm. I will never change my habits. I will never stop pitying myself. I will never stop feeling. I will never try again. There is no more "one more chance". This is it. In grief for oneself it is easy to realize that giving up is so much harder than trying. Attempt takes bravery, forfeit requires failure.

The acceptance of the failure is what takes courage. There is more valor in loss than there ever could be in triumph. I officially announce my acceptance of failure, my faults, my utter incapability to find what truly makes me happy. The gallantry of defeat is something I will take pride in, realizing that so many are weaker than I because they give into the desire to try again. I stand tall in my decision and will no longer waver.

The pride is one thing to endure, the agony of repeated failure is another.

Different

I don't know why I feel the need to keep coming back to this. Maybe I find it comforting to know it's here? I should probably just delete it, but I suppose it's healthy in its own way. A cathartic method of removing thoughts that never seem to want to escape from this jumbled head of mine. A continuous cycle of anxiety, temporarily postponed because I can spill out all of it onto a keyboard and make it appear in this little e-journal. Some people type blogs to be noticed and I've realized that I am the exact opposite. As in every aspect of my life, I'm different.

It's such a terrible thing to be, isn't it? Different. Throws someone into complete alienation if exerted too forcefully upon "normal" people. My whole life I've been the oddball. Not a shock, really. Sad that I didn't notice before. As I got older I followed social structure better, but really, there's always been that varied rhythm of a drum that beats specifically for me that I can't seem to get out of my head and it confuses the rest of the masses when I follow it.

Now I feel the need to march once again, only instead of the beaten path, I find myself at a fork in my journey. One way is dark and scary, full of uncertainty--as do all trips into the future--with small specks of light filtering through from far away that could mean a happy, full existence one day. The other has a suburban feel. There are houses, each immaculately like the last, and people who always smile, all the time. It's fake. It's not happiness, but a facade of life.

I'm not sure I can keep walking down that path anymore. I feel the need to weather the danger and be brave, but I stumble over my own feet as I start to make my way toward the overgrowth and darkness and stall myself yet another day. All the while standing upon the precipice of the entrance into the strange, seemingly perfect existence of serene neighbors and absolutely no chaos or "difference" and suddenly I realize that I would always rather be different than live a lie.

Now if I could only push myself down that dark scary road...and towards the life that will help me be who I want to be some day. Freedom comes with bravery. If I could only find the courage to speak...