I sit at the center of the classroom. This is where my homeroom teacher placed me, and here I must stay for some time. Maybe I kept staring outside with great longing on my face to escape from lessons and teachers. No one can blame for that, but I hardly deserve to sit at the classroom's center and bear the brunt of the teacher's attention.
Most likely, the reason why I sit at the worst possible place is because I do not meet their expectations. I have tried all my life to project an image of an impressive, unaffected and intelligent person; but in most aspects, I have failed to supplement.
I want to tear you out, you know. I'm in this classroom surrounded by people who expect too much from me, and thus, question why I cannot live up to my supposed "potential." I hardly blame myself instead of blaming it on others. Everything is a vicious cycle, and my self-esteem problems is a cause, and at the same time, an effect.
Why do I keep on writing? Huh? I write decently, but cannot reach the epitome of writing well. Literature is supposed to evoke a reaction and an emotion. This is an unwritten objective of a writer. I am a bad writer who doesn't even deserve to be called such because I cannot evoke anything.
My writings are too cold, philosophical and dead. It is no small wonder that I cannot get others to read my work.
People marvel at the correctness of my synthax, the exposition of other's ideas. Then, it stops there. I suppose writing does reflect one's true character. That is why I am afraid to write. When I re-read what I have written, I see all my faults and imperfections, the very things I avoid looking at. I live and have woven a web of lies around myself. It is disconcerting to see hard proof of your weaknesses on paper. I make too many resolutions but little or no reinforcement of these promises. All my life, I've tried to be my ideal person. The trouble is, my efforts did not go on vain; I have trapped myself into an illusion from which I cannot escape.
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