My Shell

I haven't written anything for a while. It seems like my creative juice has dried up. All that remains is the shell of a once vibrant mind. A mind that could have done anything, climb the highest mountain, walk in the most fearsome jungle, travel to outer space... Alas reality has collared me, boxed me behind the ears and set me straight.

I'm no genius, no potential was unexplored. I only said that to convince myself that I could have done better. In reality, I probably did the best I could. You tell yourself a lie over and over again, it probably would become your truth. Its hard to separate fiction from reality in such a state. Its hard to determine if you really love someone or are by their side because of some sense of duty or obligation.

How do I account for the time I've wasted dreaming big dreams, telling no promising to fulfil aspirations that are beyond my reach? Why did I think I could have reached those heights? Who fooled me? Who made me believe in myself? Critics? Friends? Enemies? Family?

A dose of the plain truth would have put me in my place earlier in life. Instead the praises, yes those false praises, the little lies, the bending of the truth, probably not to hurt my feelings have done me more harm than good.

I have a family that deserves better, not the lies I feed them to cover up for my inadequacy to provide all that they need. The cycle continues, I lie to give them a false sense of security. A hope for a brighter tomorrow, a line behind the dark clouds, they are nonexistent.

I go into my shell to keep others out, to shield my vulnerability, to mourn for my imaginary potential, to die a coward's death.