Life Through A Seaglass Lens

Mistakes

With each little mess-up, anger rises in my chest, unruly and pent up. With each little problem, the tears prick at my eyes, a dam ready to burst. With each little red light, my mind wants to scream, wild and free, at my stupidity.

Why am I like this?

I know what I'm doing, my brain works overtime making sure that my strategies are correct and my formulas perfected, but somewhere along the way in the process of being solved, it is messed up. Because of that small error, the avalanche of failure begins, frustrating me and making my want to cry.

I know that I am like this, I know that it is petty, but outside sources feel the need to state it, too. I don't need you saying to my face that I will fail, for surely one's hardest critic is oneself. I can't stop making these mistakes, and I can't prevent my anger from lashing out.

So, what am I good for?

I don't even like that subject all too much, I have another that I look to in my times of stress, and yet the pressure of the correct career choice presses at my back and makes me stumble. I need money, but would I rather live comfortably in this ruined economy and be unhappy, or live poorly and yet be the happiest woman on the earth? I have a feeling which one I will choose, though my heart tugs in the direction in the other.

I must distract myself from the horrors of growing up, for if I don't my dreams will be pushed into the ground by the adults that wish to control me. Yes, I am down to earth, but what about my mind? What about my mind, that thinks of stories and is bursting with colors, and yet is so aware of the state that our world is in?

I hope that I may flourish in a world that is set on my death, but how may I do that when I am made of mistakes?