I used to believe that I was one of a kind.  That I was some teenage genius that felt alone and believed he could do so much, but hated to stand out. Just excuses. Lately, I’ve been trying to get a better perspective on myself and from this I’ve found that I really can’t fly, nor have I ever been able to.

The other day I was looking through my high school year book and came to the pages that I did. I recalled the things that I went in to making them. The hours designing the pages, the days getting names, and the weeks perfecting them all came back to me like an old friend. All I could see were flaws. Every whitespace that was too dominating, every odd color choice, every redundate word I noticed for the first time. No doubt I could do the same for this blog and have similar results.

The way I wrote really got to me. I used to pride myself on being an above average writer, but reading anything I wrote in the last year doesn’t show me that. The weird thing is that when I read stuff older than a year or two ago, they were better. I read them and and I can recall what I was thinking, and often even how I felt.

So what is the difference between the peices in my yearbook and anything I wrote before then? The only thing I can come to is that I was trying to hard to be a good writer.

So I feel like I have to fly, when flying is what I fear the most. I have to be a good writer; a good person. Wanting to fly and trying to are very different things, and I’m only obsessed with the former.

I need to grow up already.