Social media is an integral part of life. You must have it to exist. I don’t have Facebook. I had a Snapchat once. I tried Twitter. Those outlets did not suit me. I dislike Facebook and Snapchat because it seems like everyone broadcasts their lives. I don’t want to do that. My life is pretty boring. Also there’s the chance of social ruin. A stupid post could really mess up your life. I prefer social media that is anonymous in nature, like Tumblr and Pinterest. On Facebook and Snapchat, I felt as of there was a constant popularity contest. I know that notion sounds absurd, but it’s something that lingers in my mind anyway. Also comparing myself to other people was something that came with FB and Snapchat. I weighed myself against others and the answer was: Jane, you’re not having fun. It also made me a little sad… FOMO. Fear Of Missing Out. I suffer from it. I should be rebelling like most teens. I should be drinking, doing drugs, and getting laid. That’s what popularity seems to be all about. If that’s what it takes to be popular, I don’t think I want to be popular. I don’t want to be something that I’m not. Sometimes social media turns people into empty husks. You can be talking to someone and they’re on their phone chatting to someone else. Rude! With social media comes the responsibility of putting on a facade. You have to be someone else and conceal your true self. I hide my true self because I’m afraid of the backlash. I’d rather be a nobody than a fake somebody.
I am not a writer. God I can’t stand myself. I am a walking contradiction. I’m a writer that can’t write. I tell people I like to write. What I really like is imagining a finished product. Even doing this hurts me. Storytelling is supposed to be a natural part of the human experience. Yet I can barely manage a paragraph. With NaNoWriMo over, and having accomplished nothing, I feel defeated. A story cannot be made out of thin air. When I was a kid I was so good at improvisation. It seems that with time you lose that creativity and gain an inner critic. Maybe I should pick a more attainable dream. I should throw away this dream because it comes with unwarranted agony. For so long, this dream has defined me. I guess my lack of support and my complacency is why things aren’t changing. In truth, I have become disenchanted. I’ve pretty much given up on my story. I don’t think of it much these days. The idea no longer excites me. I am too afraid to let my story go or recreate it, so I have left it to rot. Maybe I will make someone else make my dream come true for me. Maybe I was meant to give people story ideas. I was never meant to write stories myself; I lack creativity. Yet part of me can’t stand the thought of someone writing my story. Even if I paid them, it would feel like they’re stealing my idea. Also they would have a different end result. They would be comparable to a mercenary, doing the writing for money and not with love. That is not what I want for my story. No one can write my story but me. I just wish more people recognized my dream. I guess people won’t support someone who doesn’t even believe in themself. I get the sick idea that I have all the time in the world to write my story. The reality is I don’t. I keep pushing my passion to secondary priority. Like always I wrote a whole lot nothing.
I hope I’m not the only one. I think of a life beyond this planet. Wouldn’t it be great to live among the celestial bodies in the void of space? The word void has some bad connotations around it… But is it so wrong to dream of life of freedom and constant adventure? What I’m trying to say is, wouldn’t it fun to just break out of reality? I know this sounds sort of cheesy but, wouldn’t it be cool if you found out you’re some kind of hero? An alien. Maybe even a space mermaid? This desire for destiny may be attributed to the fact that my life is so mundane. Everyday is the same to me. Also there’s a certain amount of decisiveness one must have to be a functional member of society. Decisiveness is something that I lack. These ideas of grandeur and having a higher destiny appeal to me because I lack purpose. Who doesn’t want to have amazing powers? Who wouldn’t want to fly? I’m certain if we could, we would all just break out of this reality. Doing this we could escape all our woes. This is part of the reason that I write. To bring my fantasies into reality. Though it’s only words on a page, imagination is all I really need.