I used to believe in fate but it's all being screwed.what i can't understand is why I of all imaginative beings, crave certainty, why i must know all the ways about everything as if knowing would or can possibly stop the burning. you see, a few months ago i had it all figured out; my settlements, my tragedy. I had hope but a strong sense of realism. i've been given freedom by unlikely components but the plan is all wrong. that's the problem with writers, they think the people of the real world are as open to willful manipulation as their self-written characters. my way or not, i know now that there is an emptiness inside me that nothing can ever fill,that no matter what i delude myself into loving, it's always going to be there. that all these ideas I've nurtured about myself and life (mostly from Dale Canergie books very popular in the 50s) are just so i don't end up as i am, little miss consolation girl who never quite lived up to her own ridiculously high expectations. like i said I've been here too long, it's time to give up,make a run for it before i'm caught again in the same current as i have been my whole life. I know I really am as terrible as I've always known,then what the hell am i doing having forgotten it for so long?
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