I am a dreamer. I've always been a dreamer. Dreaming of what could be, could have been, what could but never would be. What I lack in action is made up for in extreme hope and faith in something entirely different than what my actions are pursuing. I dream of wild fantasies, of a different life that has never been my own, would never be my own. I've been building my own demise and the pathway to that demise contains everything but what I truly want. The person I see is not myself. She has never looked the way I should. I should be beautiful. Smaller and warmer. Cheekbones large and protruding, almost freak like, their severity lessened only by my wide round eyes. They shine, almost sparkle in vivid shades of green. So wide with hope, desire and power. Power to attain the things I crave, and bravery. Her eyes speak with out sound, her heart is worn on her sleeve. Its unprotected but still guarded. Long black locks of hair swirl out from her scalp and sway perfectly as she enters rooms. Mysterious but everything is given away, or what is to be perceived as everything by her eyes. Even as a child, the confidence that I was somehow better, more thoughtful, more open, more deserving of my heart skipping a beat, of that persons attention.. felt as though it belonged to me, yet it wasn't me. This life that I felt someone like myself was meant to have has never been more than a fanciful wish, that someday maybe by chance I would wake up from the nightmare of this chain of mediocrity and entirely usual events that have been my actual life, claimed my life. I'm good at things. Good. Good is the blandest and worst of all complimentary words that exist in the human language. The only thing worse than being good at something is being OK at something.. and only because that means that you aren't even good at that something. I'm good at most things, and I feel with little effort I could be good at anything. I will never be spectacular at anything. There in lies the problem with being good at most things...just good enough. Good enough to pretend that I might have some sort of special skill, somewhere.. or maybe if I tried just a little bit harder I could excel at some, one thing. But that's not me. Perhaps its the completely self obsessed part of me that believes that this can't possibly be true, that i contain something just a little better than everyone else, something that shines a little bit brighter but has been dimmed, probably even burnt out by this relentless fear and inability to actually do anything. I think of doing things. I dream of doing these amazing things, being looked at as something not ordinary, something of greatness, and power, and beauty. Of others knowing that there is something about me, that isn't like them. That my compassion for their suffering is great, hindering and sometimes all together consumes me. I worry more about you.. them.. anyone before myself. I ignore and become removed, rather, I remove myself. There is sadness, but mostly confusion as to why I instinctually make the wrong choice. I see myself as so powerful and willful with an almost animalistic need to attain membership in this world I so badly want to be a part of but I remain stalled and motionless. I don't know if I'm even necessarily falling backwards or if its just that I can't keep up.

I don't know if sadness is even the right word. Somber?
Dismal.