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AlmostThere , 10 Mar 2009

venting is better than picking

I've always thought or hoped myself to be one of the few normal-crazy people afflicted with this unrelenting, vicious habit. I know that sounds contradictory & insane on its own, but nevertheless, this his how I feel. Along with becoming a young professional, there are many other suedo characteristics that I've been forced to take on and master, due not to society, but to this atrocious lifestyle that I've reluctantly managed to adapt for myself. As if life itself isn't hard enough, the progression of this bloody (no pun intended) compulsion I've aquired has lead me to perform a few shameful behavioral acts that shouldn't be necessary in every day life: procrastinatoin, paranoia, sell-out syndrome, mysterious/private nature, reclusiveness, fabrication, wardrobe-concealing tactics, reflexive safety maneuvers. These stunts I pull on a daily basis (along with the CSP) have all lowered and ruined my being, spirit, standards, reputation, relations and existence. I write in hopes to bring self-awareness. How the hell am I supposed to launch my career and live the life I've worked so hard to establish for myself, while deturring from living at all? Why do I choose to bring this upon myself? I could sit here and ask these redundant questions over and over, just like the cycle that taunts me within, or I can aim my focus on trying everything within my power to resist that which destroys me. I feel sorrow not only for myself, but for the people who I have to interface with on an occasional basis. They are not as ignorant as they come off, despite our futile efforts to cover the truth (which I have sadly perfected). People tolerate our deformed canvasses, while conducting themselves as decent and humane beings that don't allure to the reality of what is present, but instead look into your eyes as if your soul is where the beauty truly lies. My pity extends beyond you and I, and beyond the latter. I reach out to those who have grinned and beared for the sake of their loved ones. My boyfriend has remained by my side, despite my curse, always hoping to see my better days. For that, I consider myself lucky. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Tis true, beauty is everywhere; everpresent. I cannot seem to grasp the fact that I self destruct and self mutilate my natural given beauty. A close friend of mine once said, "There are actual ugly people out there who have to live with themselves," in hopes to bring perspective. I dismally have to admit that I consider myself to be ugly pre-picking, and that tunnel-vision is utmost blurry in my own lenses. I need to stop looking into my pores. I need to back up, and start looking at the beauty in whom is returning my glare. I am a slave to perfection, only for the euphroic realm and illusion of beauty; nothing else. I really do find it ironic that I believe to posess the ability to see and create beauty in all that I touch, simuItaneously, I contrive just the opposite in/to/for myself. In attempt to rid myself of all alleged impurities, I knowingly sabatoge my person. I can't fathom living the remainder of my journey in this pathetic, yeilding state. I am worthy of so much more. I went out Thursday to a friend's party that I couldn't blow off. My condition was unsatisfactory, to say the least. I could describe in detail, but I have a feeling if you're reading this you can conjure for yourself. Still, I dealt with my deeds and I participated in the social event. Due to a bunch of the same repetetive emotions/happenings, come Saturday, I was looking good. I went downtown to a club and I was strutting my stuff, living the dream while I could. Come Monday, I delayed all of my to do's & carried out all of my to don'ts. It's like I've accepted and succumbed to this awful pattern, so much as to strategically and routinely exert precautionary measures, because that's all I feel I can do. The cycle never seems to end. I hate war, yet I fight with myself. I know what I want, but in the whilst of attainment, I close the door on my revelations and let it hit me in the arse. I long for this paradox to end.

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