Love, and I use the term loosely, is a bitch and it seems to be a recurring theme in my life. Quite frankly, I’m through with it. It does me no good–a bunch of wanting and giving. And for what? Nothing, but anxiety and heartache. What am I complaining about though? I look at the problems of others and mine seem so trivial. Quit tormenting yourself, you don’t deserve it. Love is a battlefield, and I’m putting down my guns.
The other day, a friend asked if I think I’m a good person; I wasn’t able to give an answer. And that surprised me. One would think that it’s a relatively simple question. But I’m a stranger to myself; I know too little about me. Clearly, I’m not happy. I don’t know what I can do to “fix” that because I wouldn’t know where to begin.