Fail.
I fail to run my own life well.

For this post, I shall try to be very clear in putting my thoughts into words. I am annoyed enough to be write all this and not bother about who's going to read. For too long I've tried to ignore my problems and tell myself that I am learning to cope. Cope is a lie - to myself, and to people who ask me how I'm doing. Not intentionally though. Its been a while I've been afraid of writing, because I'm afraid of thinking and getting stuck at dead-ends. I wish life was not little, but much, clearer. Eventually, I become a weakling. Faced with a situation that calls for action amidst dilemma, my only resort became to cry/get depressed for days.

I fail, and I know very clearly how I fail so bad with everything and possibly everyone too. I psycho myself and pretend to think that I am learning to manage these failures by avoiding them and not thinking about them, to carry on life as normal (not as what is normal to me, but what is normal and very often superficial to the world). Yet I still usually end up looking for someone to help me. Sometimes these aren't people I ought to turn to, sometimes these people aren't really interested in helping me, sometimes these people say things I don't need to or don't want to hear, sometimes these people don't know what to do, sometimes these people don't convince me, sometimes I end up not wanting to tell anything to these people after approaching them. Most of the time though, I don't find these people and instead, discover that I should figure my life out for myself, and feel stupid and futile sharing my life with anyone. There isn't any thing I've done that made my life any happier compared to where it is, and there isn't any attempt that I've not regretted.

There's something I hated saying, and never wanted to succumb to. I do hate life a lot, but saying this doesn't purport anything, so it remains as meaningless as most part of my life. I fail.