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Mouth Sewn Shut
Singing Agathe
I am feeling distinctly inferior these days. I find that I'm really not all that good at the things I enjoy, and anything I may have a margin of talent for is just a cheap fill for my need to feel accomplished. I'm an Achiever, dammit. And if I can't be achieving, then the next best thing is to complain so you're sure to know why I'm not achieving.

So there's been a lot of bitchy and moaning, all to cover up my own insecurities and general distaste with the ruin I've let accumulate in the garden of my mind. I'm a posturing peacock. No substance. False flame. Withering potential, decaying on the vine.

My body aches within its own atrophy. Crawling back out to the surface means facings those harsh truths again: that I'm not good at things that make me happy, and I'm not special enough to warrant the attention of my betters. I always return to the same, sad, sick scenario. I decide if I cannot be the best at achieving, I will be the best at suffering. That is not a game confident people feel the need to play.

What is this morbid affliction that I nurture inside me? When will I be able to face the Dawn?

And why the fuck do I have so many tags that are appropriate to drivel like this? It's time to burn something out of me, I think.

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