I’m afraid it’ll be eternal; this feeling.
It lingers in my bloodstream, whispers in my ear, and settles within my bones.
And I believe it. New levels of persuasion are reached through its brevity.
I’m not good enough.
I’m not good enough.
This is no epiphany; I’ve had similar statements suffocating me before. I listen to the wind’s voices telling me my worth. I hear the rustle of the trees, reminding me I’m a burden.
But something’s different this time. It doesn’t feel like an insecurity; it just feels like a fact. A fact that’s undeniable and simultaneously inevitable. Like I was destined to fall short. Like fate has decided I’m only alive so I can bask in my flaws and then perish.
“Practice makes perfect” and “never give up” are inscribed so deeply in my brain that I never thought I could question their validity.
I make excuses and I find reasons and I search and search for clarity until my vision is blurred and my morals are askew.
Clarity only comes with closure, and I won’t be getting closure anytime soon. I don’t know closure very well; I leave wounds open so that I can draw blood whenever I want. Re-analyzing from recurrent angles just to make sure I have the same conclusion. Yet I beg for a discrepancy, I yearn for a disparity, I long for a dissimilarity. Anything that gives me a veracious reason to reminisce.
I’ll be stuck in the past forever. The present is simply the time I use to think about the past, and the future is just the past that hasn’t happened yet. I’ve forgotten how to be excited about things. I don’t need to wait for anything. I’ve fought with time repeatedly; I know how fast she flies.
Time and my insecurities; two eternal entities fighting over which can make my life worse. They make each other worse too. With every passing second, I substantiate my deepest fears further. Every new fear is evidence of change. Like cyclamen, blooming year after year, it’s a cycle, resurging every so often. This flower and I; we’re stuck in the loop of infinity.
I wish I had a happy ending, but cycles never end, so I should be grateful that this can end. I don’t feel like enough, I feel doomed, I feel stuck, I feel trapped. They’re just statements ringing through my head, repeating and repeating and repeating until I eventually find a way to make it stop.
