This Little Dream Called Ambition.

found via We Heart It

Every time people asks me, of what I truly want to be, I tend to shrug the question off, and using the excuse of not entirely knowing what I really want to be. I mean, I am twenty two and I have a lot of insecurities, rather than to sit down and think about what I really want to be thoroughly. Sure, all of us use to tell our teachers in elementary school that we want to be doctors or astronauts when we all grow up. Well, childhood is all about having ambitions and stuffs, acting all optimistic about life—thinking that everything is about sunshine and rainbow, and fucking unicorns flying around, shitting rainbow poops.

But life is not all about that wonderful shit, and that is what growing up from childhood is all about. Your childhood gets corrupted by ideas and realities, and in certain ways, you just lose all these beautiful ideas you have.

What I really want to be is a writer and good God; I really want to be a writer. I want to let my imaginations flow into words on pages. I want people to read the words from me, to feel my emotions and my ideas. I want to change lives; I want to implant ideas and inspirations into minds. Those are what I really want to do. I want to feel free to live on my imagination; I want to feel free to use my words on pages to speak what is on my mind. I want to write, and let people know that those words they are reading are mine, all mine.

No one understands how I really feel when I am writing. I don’t see writing as a waste of time; in fact, I see it as a way to express myself better. I suck when I speak, I don’t tell what is on my mind when I am using verbal words. I express very well when I am writing. My words flow fluently when I am writing. I could let my emotions run with everything when I am writing. That is how I see writing, I see it as almost everything I do, everything I speak, and everything I feel.

I want to be a writer. God, I really want to be a writer. I need my current work, but I will make sure that I will continue to write. I will write a book. Just wait and see, you’ll find a book with my name as the author on its cover one day.

Away.

Am I slipping away? I just don't feel like being alive any more. I just want everything to end and I just don't mind if it hurts. I wish my existence means a little more to the people around me. But I am nothing but a breathing human being who's unimportant to everyone. I hate that. And because of that, I just want to slip away.

Things.

Fact that, I don't think my parents realize that I'm changing, and if I'm not, I'm pretty sure something is severely messed up with me right now. I know that I babble a lot, and talk all nonsense shit like, all the freaking time, but that is my creative side talking, and all are nothing but words that are spewed at that moment. But at this second, right now when everyone inside my home is asleep, away in their dreamland--or nightmare-land, for whatever reason that I don't give a crap on--I feel like I am not myself, and I just want someone to point it out for me, to tell, straight into my face that I'm changing, and changes sucks.

I mean, I spend days, in and out, breathing the same air as my parents, and they don't even seem to realize that I am too close to break apart. I am tearing at the seams, and all they see is this image of their daughter, who is always too lively for her own damned sake, and that daughter who puts up sarcasm as her best defence. Yet, they choose not to see the dark circles around her eyes, or the twitches in her expression when the light is too bright, or the hitch in her breath when something hit too hard or too close.

I hate to be that girl--like the one in those young adult novels--that breaks into million of pieces, a little too late for anyone to fix, but somehow miraculously manage to overcome everything. I hate to be that, but that is what I am becoming.

I wish someone is out there, willing to hear to me, to my stories. I'm just sick of waiting, just waiting for someone to see the cracks on my fine surface, to see my crumble into pieces, little by little as the day goes by. I want someone to help me, save me. I'm not fine, I am nowhere near fine.

For What It's Worth.

Just so you know, I am still alive. Bitter and all in misery, but yes, still pretty much alive.

With every passing day, each and every one of my friends finally found a job and start a new life as a working, young adults. And then, there is me; still somehow stuck in between reality and fantasy, not entirely sure of who I am, or what I would become. I am just existing for the sole purpose of wondering around like a lost soul, unsure of everything. I am made of everything, but in the end turns out to be nothing.