History can creep up on you, even when you’ve been outside it’s door, knocking, and carrying on like a child, for years. Tonight, as I consider the bitterness of this beer, I find it a match for my mood. I’m indulging in my favorite feelings indulging playlist too. I have too much in my mind and no one to tell it to. Who are you supposed to talk to? I’ve always been such an alien. For so long I identified myself by the young person I was, trying to find footing in the world, without parental guidance. I remember being 14, and something shifted. I was kind of on track to be a completely mediocre semi-proffessional singer (as far as I was concerned), when something just kind of changed. A lot of people told me I had talent, and plans were being made. I knew it wasn’t true. There was something they were hoping to develop me into. Lots of parents were doing it. I met their kids. Some of them had talent. Once I saw it, and knew I wasn’t good enough, I was in familiar territory. Despite a lot of promise and encouragement, I had determined that as an artist, sketching, painting, and sculpting, I had no real reason to continue. I was never going to be good enough. What was it all for? I was 16, and had boxed myself in. I just didn’t have it. For the next 8 years, nearly every thing I did, was a mess. At this point in writing this, I feel like I am standing naked, at the end of a diving board, blind folded. I am not sure I can say what I want to say, or that I even should.

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