My self-esteem is in the gutter. None of my achievements are worth being proud of. Even when I hear the news that somebody read my book, a pain inside me resurfaces. Other books are best sellers because they took out the scenes that embarrassed them. Not me. I just quietly published for no reputable reason. I didn’t even try to sell it, and that is what I am most proud of. I didn’t write it for money. It should be burned for its honesty… And here I am ready to sell out. All I think of when I look at those pages are tears that should have never been shed for my experiment. It’s unfair, I got what I wanted which was nothing what I expected.
I was doing so well, so happy and isolated from what I imagine everybody to be achieving in their spare time. Then I remember. All I can do is write poetry. I really don’t have that much going for me and the days are getting shorter and lonelier. I wish I knew what to go back to school for. Once again, it is a question of happiness and everything else.
Listen, to others I hear the demons say. But my heart cries out like a spoiled child and I can’t seem to do anything. But I do, I listen to everybody because I can’t hear myself think. I hate waking up. I hate sleeping. I hate everything. It is just not going my way and I should start getting used to it because I’d bet this is as easy as it will ever be. I have no future, no hope, no desire to do the things everybody tells me I should feel some sort of empathy for. I don’t enjoy art unless it is prestigiously pretentious and I’d probably be mean to any children even if they offered me candy. I’m a fat, over-organized lout. Worst of all, unhappy with everything. My expectations would scare away anybody.
I talked with my two best friends yesterday for nearly two hours and all I can remember is blushing that to the fact that they are both on unemployment and ten steps ahead of me in every other outlet. I haven’t heard their art in ages. I told them I had different values than a place of my own and tried to overlook that I still live with daddy at 23. It felt awful even though I know they would love me if I was homeless. It was just hard to see myself compromised even after all I’ve been through, it’s no excuse. People don’t care and are very good at judgments. I felt and looked like a runt.
For as much as I whine, I might say that I’m on time. I know there is a plan for me, but I am lost in a fog that is only getting thicker, and frankly, I’m getting sicker. Good luck, they all say, but that is never a good thing to hear, it makes me fear the worst. Tomorrow will be just like today.
Ben Bonkoske 