17 Confessions

Originally written on Aug.3.09

Every few phases in life, I open a blank page in an empty notebook and I write. At this and other things important to me, I have never been consistent.

When confronted with the fear of failure, I have consolidated and minimized my perceived talents and as a result: I lack the ability to gauge my capabilities.

I do not have a Moleskin. I found this book in my library and recognized my father's writing; I have, since his death, avoided confronting myself for sometimes forgetting that I'm not just my mother's daughter.

I do not trust my ability to warn myself when I'm slipping - I'm too good at reinterpreting excuses for my actions... especially in defense of defending others'.

Self-entitlement is not a necessary evil of accomplishment.

My absence does not save anyone from my demons; in not applying this I have instead used it to excuse my inability to face that which I am ashamed.

I seldom re-read entries I have written. When I have, I seldom recognize the writer... This is not always an indicator of progress.

I am aging... yet I still put off. Habits are beginning to become traits.

I do not know how to get where I need to be - and I spend more time than I can afford reassuring myself that it is normal, despite being unforgiving of normalcy in others.

i over-analyze/criticize myself to the point of doubt. When in doubt I have, in the past, sabotaged myself.
I base a lot of my understandings on a hit-and-miss system of perceptions that are completely subjective and may not be real/true/useful/applicabl

e.

I have not grown as a writer or a speaker - and am yet to take this challenge seriously despite wanting to.

I put other peoples' desire above my own - in some twisted, self-sacrificing way I feel justified in giving... this too has been an excuse for my actions.

I suspect many of people's kinds deeds are self-serving sacrifices... compromises that validate some inherent image they see of themselves. Basically, that which I am personally guilty of.

Many of my early memories are themed in the reactions of others either 'not getting' or 'losing'.

Music moves me the way it does because I admire the ability to say so much, so creatively in so little time.

My death instinct, like my life instinct, is hyperactive... sometimes disturbingly more so.