I don’t like pretending.
I think it’s hard sometimes, in the world we live in, to just be ourselves. If there’s anything I’ve learned through my classes, and my friends, and my family lately, it’s that humanity is a weird, complex thing. There are social norms that try and tell us who we are, who we should be. There are books that give us rules on how to live our lives — and if we break those rules, then we are auomatically wrong. To me, I just have to laugh at this because…God, everyone is just trying the best they can. We all like different things, weird things. We all have our skeletons, and our quirks, and those things that we can’t change about ourselves, even if we wish sometimes that we could (although, we should realize that those things are really just there to make us stronger.)
I’ve got nothing figured out.
I’d like to think that the more I write, and the more I analyze, that I’m answering some questions…buttt, I’m probably not. It’s most likely just me, helping myself through the day — because most of the time I wake up the next morning, and forget all the problems I thought I had solved in my head the day before.
There are people out there that I wish I could please. I really do. I wish I fit what they define as beautiful, or enthralling, or whatever you have it. But I’m just me, you know?
I like rainy, gloomy days.
I like simple songs.
I’m so, so, ridiculously lazy. And a mess. (you should see my car right now)
I’m not religious, and probably never will be.
I like 50 million things, and have tried them all, but have never actually been that great at something.
I’m plain looking. I’m like, girl-next-door, not dark and sexy or cool, and I’m cool with that. (I think)
I’m stupid and goofy and I think my art teacher thinks that means I’m not deep, which frustrates me to no end because she should read my journal.
I don’t want to be perfect. I think the imperfections in me, help other people feel comfortable around me. They help me understand others that people might think are weird or different.
I’m too blunt on twitter. I talk too much sometimes. I share too much sometimes. I probably am way too personal on this thing.
Again, I don’t regret it.
I look at some people, so afraid to be alone because they would have to discover who they really are, unnattached from someone else, and I feel bad for them. Because they have this potential — to be great. And maybe my definition of great is not their defintion of great. And maybe that is the whole problem in itself.
My point is, just try your best to be you. And don’t be ashamed, ever, for being real.
Even if I don’t like it… I’ll get over it. Probably.