Self.

Once, I thought it would be easy; the minute I finished school, I would be employed and start my adult life as a contributing self-sufficient and responsible member of society.

Now, I'm less optimistic with each passing day; do I hold onto my dwindling aspirations? Endeavors without beginnings are not what dreams are made of.

I must carry on, wayward or otherwise. In the meanwhile, I would commit to self improvement; certain aspects of my life is a mess at the moment, and I seek to remedy exactly that.

How? I'll ride this new year feel-good wave and find out.

2017.

I have convinced myself that I could accomplish great things, feeding into my delusions of grandeur. It is becoming increasingly apparent that I am lying. To myself, at the very least.

This road started out in earnest, hopeful but stupidly optimistic. My own inflated expectations trapping me, in a viscous bubble of depravity.

I hold myself hostage, akin to victims of the infamous Stockholm Syndrome, telling myself that I am worth more than this, without knowing what does 'this' actually refers to.

These irrational sentiments are further reinforced with every step I failed to take; tendrils of unseen chains pulling me down, into depths of dissonance.

I keep telling myself with increasing conviction that I'd deserve better but the fact remains, I am nobody;  nobody owes me anything.

The main takeaway? A quarter of cent, and nothing to show for it. Where is the line when you begin to question your sanity?

New year new nobody me. Heh.

Ego Writing.

I think about writing all the time.

I'd admit that I have the notion that I am capable of writing well enough. 

While it is quite impossible for me to think of myself otherwise, due to an inflated and irreplaceable ego and all, I try my best to appear as innocuous as possible.

My friends commonly associate me with writing well. A good command of the English language. Writer in the making. 

Truth is, I don't believe for a moment that I am able to fulfill their expectations. Oh I might have some otherworldly fantasies myself, in a parallel but non-existent universe, but that don't make any of it true.

It terrifries me that anything I write is up to the scrutiny of my peers. It shouldn't. I'm well past the age where I still care, alas I do. Yet, at the same time, I seek praise from them, not out loud, but it's there, a lingering feeling of unbridled arrogance.

Can anyone be rid of their ego? The ones who proudly say they are the master of their egos, are merely slave to that of their arrogance. No matter where we are in life, our ego would be still ever present. It's just good old human nature. 

Thought we might never be rid of it in our lifetime, it is an eternal struggle to seek control over our egos. And as we grow older, our finesse grows as well, to the point of deluding ourselves that we've outgrown that immature little bitch. But that isn't always the case.

I am still thinking about writing. Most of the time.

It has been months.

Months that felt like years.

Years of academic pursuits.

Pursuits believed to lead to opportunities.

Opportunities laid bare.

Bare and ripe.

Ripe as an oyster.

Oysters for the world.

For.

it's easy
to let go
it's hard
to hold on

so we
hold on
so you
hold hard

looking for
respite
seeking for
reprieve

and so it's for...