To my summer: I’m sorry, I fucked up, I wanted too many things and was afraid to do all of them.

I wanted to use my remaining money to support a new constructive hobby but instead I pissed it away at destructive compulsive habits.

I met some people but I terminated our relationships before they could ever bloom and was two faces to everybody. Or worse, I was absent.

Every night I succumbed to nightmares that pervaded into my waking day and it’s no surprise, seeing how I deluded myself each day about fulfilling some part of my grand dream. Keeping friendships, self empowerment and improvement…all glittering, substance-less dreams. The only times I succeeded I can count on one hand, but I cherish them so…when I went climbing or hiking again, despite the fear, every true human interaction I had with friends that meant something, going to counselling, finishing my work and being a real person to my book camp group.

Failure hurts but at least it’s something I own. I failed; it’s in my power to succeed, too.

I better admit I failed before I’m older and regret not fixing things.


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