When you reach a point of dissatisfaction with yourself, there’s only so much you can do to trudge on, to fight, to overcome.
If I’m asked to change, to take some sort of revamped initiative, I’m sad to say that it simply won’t work.
Sure, I complain quite often. I’m upset, and bottling my sentiment will only concentrate and subsequently exacerbate my view.
Kicking, yelling and screaming is only a waste of energy.
I’ve traveled an infinite number of roads, and nothing new seems appealing.
The only ounce of pride I have is in my failure to be the person who I know I should be.