the word was on the street that the fire in your heart is out

I hate to use me. I. myself. You see? I hate to use first person. I hate to use who I am so blatantly, so simply. Because it's too easy to say I, I, I, again and again until there isn't any real meaning, because exposing yourself is never done fully, never done easily, it's a lot of pretend and a lot of empty sentences. So I could go on and on, I could. But I won't.

Instead, meet a girl, an adult by rights. Of legal age most parts round the world. Of age by society's expectation, by the very definition of a number and its associations.

This girl hasn't grown up in hardship, this girl should have it all, by rights. Except in the ways she doesn't -- and of course, those are the ways that matter, that stick to the inside of the skull and pester with an itch that can't be scratched -- even if they are small trifling things, self-imposed. She loves to make excuses, internalizing to hide weakness and failure. It makes it more bearable to imagine the universe is plotting against you, to imagine there is some intrinsic failing that cannot be helped within your mind.

More bearable. Easier.

Escape. 

And perhaps she's always known no matter how much she imagines the universe has slighted her, no matter how she resorts to blaming, creating scapegoats in her mind to present to her gods (always blaming, circumstance, society, people) it's a weak thing that backfires with self-loathing. This girl is smart by rights -- except in all the ways she's not. It's easy to blame, but it's easiest of all to acknowledge reality, the cruel, harsh, bitter facts.

You have failed. You haven't tried hard enough, didn't want to. You are weak. It's all your fault.  You've nothing to blame but yourself.

And she knows, oh how she knows and how it aches. Makes her tear-ducts over leaky. Makes sleep a battle to be won. Makes self-pity and panic the order of the day.

She knows, like the smart-stupid-girl she is, knows no one will pity her the way she pities herself. No one will help her because she does not deserve it. No one will sympathize because she has no one to sympathize for her. Foolish, unmotivated and self-imposed problems do not warrant sympathy besides.

She knows and it terrifies her, makes her restless even as she keeps silent. Makes her inactive and so impossibly unmotivated, pathetic, defeated, listless. Makes her dive feet first into escapism with a sick desperation. Makes her pity herself until she hates herself. And hates and hates and hates.

The fear never leaves and the hope is slowly disappearing. And how silly it was, to hurt this way, at this time, for these reasons. She knows it is weak, knows there are so many truly suffering who stand firm against despair. She knows and it only makes her hate more.

Now her days are wasted, barely moving, her nights spent wide eyed and pointless. She is terrified to leave her house, to step into the world once more, to face her problems head on. The people around her are busy and she has nothing but time. She squanders it all. Sleeping the day, losing track of the passing of nights, losing track of food. She is stuck and she is so aware of it that it makes her feel sick. The vaguest beginning of a topic that even reminds her of what she does not want to think of send her into a heated flush of shame, of heart fluttering panic, of frustration.

She is pathetic. She could change it, she knows, if not the past then an effort to deal with the collateral. She knows it all. And even as she writes this, the sun starting to come out now, she knows she can't. Won't. Let the days continue to fade into each other until her disaster is crashing down around her, unavoidable and destructive.

And when her failure comes to light, when it becomes unavoidable, it is only half of her heart focused on herself, for once, for the only time perhaps. The other half is anticipating the disappointment. The great disappointment she will cause the people she cares for most. The humiliation is a close finish, the humiliation she already feels that will be made glaringly visible, soon.

She is full to the brim, overflowing with hatred. Yet underneath it all is a colder sentiment, less brash and emotive. She is disappointed with herself. Disappointed and unwilling to do a damn thing about it.