I no longer want to be inhibited by my own self-loathing. Don’t get me wrong, I love life and everything in it. I admire things that most people probably pass by without a second glance. I’m the looney-bin that even sits in the pool for ten minutes just admiring how pretty the water reflects the sunlight off each individual ripple. Aside from all that, I think I may have a serious problem. My distractions occur often and not far between, and I frequently find that hating myself is the result. Something about spending that time, and realizing that it was wasted, bothers me to no end. This, among other traits within myself, cause a lot of negativity within my mind. I hear that’s supposed to be bad for you, unfortunately.
This sense of loathing haunts me in everyday activities. I can’t go a moment without thinking, “This could have been a lot better if you weren’t so distracted,” or “Why can’t you dedicate yourself to something and actually finish it?” Both of these thoughts pass through my mind’s eye at some point in the day. I’m not sure if this is due to the faults in my brain caused by existence or some other, more reputable reason. I’ve heard that mass media and the development of technology has sapped my generation’s ability to focus. Whether this is true or not may reflect itself within my own head. I know, however, that my generation is acutely aware of themselves. Each person seems to know exactly what they want to do, or if not they at least know and are proud of who they are. This is evident in all the facebook statuses and photos dedicated to beauty and personal worth. I think I must’ve missed out on that wide-ranging confidence booster that so many in my generation experience. Perhaps if I weren’t so distracted I may have been able to partake in that event.
My distractions cause other rifts within my life, possibly greater than just the hatred directed towards my own being. It’s put some of my friendships in a strained, tight container that makes growth and health impossible. This may sound foolish and nonsensical at first, but I assure you this is the reason. By my distractions, I pay less attention to those around me. Someone right next to me is sometimes less interesting than the gorgeousness of the clouds above my head. Despite the fact that they continue to prattle on and on, those fluffy, voluptuous clouds drift dreamily overhead in peace. It’s fascinating that something so loud and something so quiet can coexist within the same airspace.
Oh, but it’s silent.
Sadly, another friend has fled from the scene to bark at others about her misfortune. Yet another person my distraction has led astray.
I long to be able to pay attention. To be able to focus. Distractions cause a great fissure in plans and goal-setting, one that is nearly impossible to work around. The cracks within the ground are so deep and so wide that one wrong step would cause a landslide of useless plans and goals to come crashing down upon my ego. My ego is but a little thing, barely able to push myself up to speak to new people, much less withstand a violent thrashing of rock-solid failure. That fear of heavy failure crashing into my ego is what prevents me from making any solid plan of anything. If I were to build it up too high, when it crashed it would be too much and I may not be able to save my little ego. Pulling him from the wreckage has been difficult in the past, but I fear I may lose him if I try anything again. With the sudden influx of plan-making and goal-setting that has been plaguing my friends lately, I can’t help but be tempted to put him in danger. The prospect of a massive career planned and in stone coming to crash upon him straightens me back out once more. Better safe than sorry.
Within my own mind, I can’t help but wonder if my distractions make me a lesser person. I would like to say that I believed I was worth something, however I cannot honestly state that I pride myself in anything. There is always someone there to steal my lime-light, if I were going to get one, and any recognition suddenly becomes fleeting. I find that if there is any chance for my ego to grow, it is quickly snatched away by hungry, prideful wolves. My little ego grows cold and lifeless as time goes by, and my weak attempts to revive him often fail. He’s become so small and fragile, I sometimes wonder whether he will make it through the especially cold and ferocious attacks at night. No matter how much I bundle him up in blankets of past successes and shelter him in the arms of talent, the scratches he receives from vicious memories cuts him deeply. Some of them stay raw despite all my efforts. I pray for the day when he can stand on his own against them, but this day is nowhere on the horizon.
One day, I’d like to cloak him in a garment of fine happiness and put him to a gentle sleep in a bed of security. I’d like to provide him pillows of friendship to cradle his head, and have great knights of passionate love to ward off the violent memories that come sneaking in every night. One day, I will no longer have to fight so hard for his survival. He will come to me when I’m down and pick me up once again, like I did for him so many times before. He’ll be a gentleman of modest nature, only using his size and great power for dire situations. He will grow to a point of health, and he’ll stop himself there and allow nothing further. He won’t allow steroids for false strength, either. He will be a fine ego, on all accounts. If only his growth would bud soon.
As of now, he sleeps soundly in my arms as all the things I dream of him being float through our heads. I tend to his needs as they arise, to the best of my limited ability, but distraction again comes knocking. Without a moment’s hesitation, I rise with my frail ego and we travel to the next fleeting beauty that passes our track toward oblivion.