I'm afraid that I don't have much to offer
the world - I've had this dream of being an
artist since I was able to dream, and
as the reality approaches, I
grow increasingly afraid. What if these
words, these hands, the things that come from these fingers,
what if they are not enough for this cruel
world for which I have nothing to offer? I
only offer something to the people
of this world, yet that isn't even enough
anymore. Depressed thoughts push me into
a cycle of pushing and being pushed
away by others, yet the cycle is
a circular behaviour pulled into
the swift motion of a line. It is a
ball bouncing between two walls for eternity;
an object always moving forwards yet
only through the same two points, in a constant
state of deja vu. The happy face of
this out of time clock seems to be one which
people like to use, being friendly no
matter what. This depressive face, bleak and
lifeless and filled with wretched longing, is
one which those who cluster around other
faces are eager to abandon. Their
friendship is superficial; their love is
superficial; their faces are superficial.
Everything dissolves into superficiality,
a fog of poison around my dilapidated
mind, and I am left, alone, with nobody to love me.