I've been told that I should be proud of what I've accomplished, that I've done so much already. That there are some that haven't done nearly all of what I've managed to do. I know they mean well but I feel shitty when I am told these things. The fact of the matter is, I've done squat, I've contributed nothing at the ripe old age of twenty-two.
And the fantasies come back. They creep into my mind, invade my field of vision and transport me away to another existence, another purpose in which I am exactly who I want to be. In which I am unafraid, I am bold. I attack with purpose and gumption. The world is my oyster and I know exactly how to handle it.
I'm certainly not depressed. I have no reason to be at all. There's just a feeling of unfulfillment nagging at my insides. Like, I have so many ideas I want to tackle but am unsure of how to go about it. Or at least that's what I tell myself so I don't have to face the fear of failure...or is it the fear of success? I want so badly to do so many things, I've got a list a mile long but I can't. It's just barely out of reach; it's this force, this thing keeping me trapped on the futon.
Another cup of tea, another episode of something and I promise I'll get right on it. I'll start tomorrow. I'm gonna make it happen at some point.
And that point never comes.