i've never written in a journal before and i think it's sort of appropriate to for my first journal entry to be on here. because no one will most likely ever read it, and it most likely doesn't matter. regardless, i've decided i'm completely unhappy with whatever i've written in the past. i look back in disgust and for no good reason. i have complete contempt for my youth. i can't even look at anything i've written past 6 months ago. my life as, well, an 'artist', has been short and horrid, as of late. i feel like i still haven't matured as an individual, as a writer, and i'm sort of waiting for it. i'm nervous as to what will become of me, as age progresses, am i actually moving? am i actually learning, changing, growing...i feel like i'm stunted. who peaks at 18! it's not even the indecisiveness that kills me. i just feel sort of helpless in the sense that i don't even know where i'm going. i'm not at ease with myself, i feel no confidence in what i create. i feel this sense of longing to strive to be better, better like the others are better, and i just don't know. i love to write, i love that sweeping feeling of accomplishment after finishing something real good. it's so hard to bring myself to spew eloquence, to actually put effort in. what's it for? i sometimes torture myself in my head, creating this alternative pseudo-me, narrating my actions viewed under a proverbial 'red light'. images, voices; negativity exisiting for the sole purpose to torture and question the normal. and i mutter and hum it away. i've never felt so hollow. these days just move, they don't stick. nothing holds any weight. sleep acts as a means to pass the time, lulling myself into this half aware lucid state where nothing exists other than the insides of my eyelids and the beating pulse in my temples. just a means of transition from nothing to nothing. i'm proud of nothing, i'm not good enough. i exist in this jumbled mess of mediocrity and apathy. in regards to the writing, i'd like to think i've started acting in this rising trend of newfound fluency. it's disgusting how i'm so ashamed of what i once was. of what i still am. who knows, i sure don't.