Frustration

I was never supposed to turn out like this, someone shameful til its almost a standard practice. When I was much younger I was adored and praised, my mother envied for raising such an intelligent and well-mannered boy. Black-sheep to the family, yes, but to the rest of the world, prodigy. Every inkling of me is almost an exact replica of what my father did when he was my age, and I hate it. Yet I can't seem to swing out of it, depression is a dangerous drug, every drag of solitude is so bittersweet, a horrible pain you don't want to stop.

In life I've always been known to require 3 basic needs for happiness. A job I enjoy, a car I love, and a girl whose company I enjoy. I can't say love with the girl, simply because, at times, I believe that the word is empty, that love is a relic of the past that haunts the minds of the present world, an ecstacy beyond reach. It comes to me now, oh so clearly, that mixing those three is simply an impossibility. I enjoy my work, I enjoy helping others which, in turn, helps myself. Yet doing what I enjoy gives me horrible monetary restraint. Therefore the car and the girl become unattainable. This stirs me into a misery that I've become all too familiar with.

Yet though this loneliness is painful, I drive myself deeper into it. Every day I look at the cars I would love to own, yet they happen to be barely out of my price range. I fanticize myself with the car and a beautiful girl beside me. I find it fitting to call them dreams, for they are most certainly not reality. I am very proud that I have worked for everything I have ever owned, very hard. I have earned every inch of everything in my possession. I've held a job consistently from when I was 14 until I went to college. This is something rare where I live, surrounded by the rich who spoil their children.

But I'm rich too.

It's undeniable, my family is very well off. So I sit and wonder, why not me? Why is it that I am held back and restrained to paying dearly for everything that I hold close? I was raised very well, my mother sacrificed so much for my sister and I after we left my father. But all I need is a little bit of money to grasp happiness and hold it tightly. Yet, I can't ask her. I won't ask her.

Maybe I'm afraid to leave my current mental state. Perhaps I've become too comfortable in my solitude, I've found safety in depression. Confusion seems just a little less confusing than understanding. Desire to know became fear of tragedy years ago, perhaps I find that solitude is the safest form of being.

It's just so frustrating.

it'll be aight dude