my thoughts tend to sound better in books i didnt write, and in the songs i didnt sing. even then, sometimes there is no piece of literature, no song, no work of art that can really explain the way i really feel. there is a double-edge comfort in knowing that noone really knows, that borders pain. it is complicated, really.
most times, it is just a lot easier to not let the world know what is wrong...
most of the time, i tend to have high expectations and things happen to not reach those of my wants and needs. it disappoints me all the more when expectations that i have isnt so hard to reach, and the fact that i have been fed with what i would recall as comforting amount of ego all the while before makes it so much harder for me. having strangers disappoint you can be brushed off with little effort, but having loved ones, or sometimes even worse--yourself, disappointing you is utterly devastating.
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