I am not cut out to be a dancer. I am not of the same material. I can't bend that way, turn this way. It hurts so bad to know and realize every single time you attempt something that you aren't meant to do what you love.

My Life

My life consists of school, dance, books, church, hanging out with friends, listening to friends, and observing people.
Monday through Friday I go to school. I listen, pay attention, do my homework, take tests, aim for good grades, deliberately not slack off, and refrain from smacking people who take away from my educational experience. Throughout this experience, I watch people. Their expressions, glances, movements, actions, etc.
Mondays and Thursdays I go to dance, and just by dancing for 45 minutes to an hour and a half, my stress level balances out.
Wednesdays I go to Faith Formation and try to listen, sometimes failing, sometimes not.
Sundays I go to church.
In my spare time, in the order and rank of things I do, I do homework, work on projects, read, listen to music, text my friends, go on Facebook and other Internet sites, sleep, hang out with friends, and sleep.
Occasionally I get the urge to dress up. I usually ignore it. Because dressing up, for me, entails wearing etiher a dress suitable for Homecoming (which I have more than four, and have only been to two formal dances at this point) or dressy, cute, sophisticated clothes, putting on makeup (I usually go natural), and wearing heels (which I love but since I consider myself tall I always degrade myself while wearing them and convince myself not to wear them). After considering if I really should, I decide not to and move on with my life. But sometimes I can't help think that if I had dressed, what would have changed. What could have happened.
A couple times in the week, I do have what I have dubbed "attacks". They encompass a gut-wrenching feeling of immense fear of death and what's after death, that I do not matter, that nothing matters, that once I die I won't exist anymore, I won't be able to do simple things, like take a shower, listen to music, twist a doorknob.
That's my routine. My life.

Things to People:

1. Watching you go through things while I’m useless and unable to actually help hurts more than ever.

2. I wish I could hear your voice once more. I wish I could see you smile one more time.

3. Talking to you is like a drug. Gratifying at first, then comes the addiction, then comes the consequences.

Confessions:

I post so many photos, take so many pictures. I feel narcissistic and conceited and unworthy every single time I look at them.

I’m not who I was last year.

Things happen, people change, ideas morph, images waver. Life is a maybe.

This is my life.
And I'm not who I want to be.

This is my life.
And I'm not who I thought I'd be.

This is my life.
And I don't know who I am.

This is my life.
But I'm not really living it.