Ruins.

To be ruined and then ruin. To perpetuate. I am what was done to me, and I am what I do, and it feels like these two things are mirrors facing one another, repeating the same damaging, vicious cycles and over and over, irrefutable and insurmountable. This is the psyche, ever molded by what it encounters, and yet with our sensibilities, our choices, we can reform this tragic figure into something better. Something of worth and valor.

Hope and optimism always reveal themselves in my writing more than when I am alone in my thoughts, or even composing something in my mind to write. As though writing is more essential to my survival than even I can understand. I do not believe I have much value other than as an artist. I am a terrible partner, insecure and demanding, an emotional leech after the charm has been exhausted. A decent enough friend, but jealous and judgmental. Self-pitying in all regards, it seems. Fair employee, given the right environment. No longer a daughter (out of choice, not death).

The realness of valuing my artist self most has plagued me, and troubled others due to showing a lack of self-worth and self-love. There’s some truth there, but is it so wrong to believe that the best of what you are is exposed in certain deeds? And to value those deeds, and the pursuit of those deeds, above all else? There is always a flaw in the extreme, but there is a flaw or two in everything. I run from what I am, I run from the best of who I am then I wonder why I drudge along in self-hatred. Run into your own arms. A strange, silly paradox of impossibility, but the idea stands. You are the diver about to dive, and the waiting ocean.

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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