The Stress is Killing Me.

I am just a girl. A girl who goes to school, works two jobs, walks her dog, and loves her Scott. And frankly, everything I love is killing me. The stress of just keeping up has buried me and I am starting to show the wear and tear of weary days and long nights.

I am starting to do what I used to do to myself. When I was a crazy kid, bogged down by all of the expectations of teacher, parents, and friends, the stress of upholding my goody-two-shoes, smarty-pants reputations, and the daily rhythm. I am starting to doubt myself. I hate this. I hate this feeling like life is running by me and everyone is seeing something at a speed which I simply do not function; a frequency I was simply not born for.

I am not a action movie, I am a slow foreign film with subterfuge, abstruse theories and long, organic scenes involving the protagonist and their private miseries becoming public.

I am writing this blog, for instance, for myself. To catalog time and group instances of greatness in my life. But it is no greatness. It is a body of writing that will melt away when I am gone, or be used as a general stamp of our times and era. People may find it, years to come, as a useful morsel of the "Internet Age" and make it an example that people would write or say anything in this open format, pretending to be more important than they were.

And That is what I am doing. I am pretending that all of this life is important. Pretending that I feel like continuing on, doing what I have always done, achieving what I have always achieved, growing the way I have always grown. I write this blog, I paint this picture, I pass this test, I log time in an office, I serve this food. I do this life. I do it and I do it and I do it until I see no meaning in the sum of what I have done.

Will you remember that I painted that in your old age, when the paint has faded and the colors seem less rich?

Will you read this, or re read this in search of something applicable to your life, to make you feel like someone existed on the same vibrations as you?

Will you know my accomplishments and be proud of them?

Or am I playing out this long, lonely story on an empty stage to an empty auditorium, while others have a full audience and roses at their final curtain call?