ZSuperficial

Today I promise myself that next time someone says anything I'm
against I WILL speak my mind. I won't just laugh and pretend I agree.
So what if they all look at me like I'm crazy? I am the only one who
understands how my eccentricities give me depth. If I keep saying that,
maybe I'll believe it again.

I've been teaching myself to be ignorant to superficiality, and yet I
seem blinded by it. Why should mindless gossip cause me any mental
distress? I ask the question sardonically, and yet it does. I don't, as
much as before, stress about my acceptance in society and yet I thrive
on my reputation. That is why I would believe someone else's judge of
my character.

I tried so hard to believe in myself. I had something else no one else
had the sagacity to appreciate in me. I wrote. I did something useful
in my spare time. I could just crawl into a hole inside myself and let
go of all my emotions on a piece of paper. When my English literature
teacher would say that the poet's pen does not hold the charm, but the
poet himself, I would glow with pride and feel like those words were
directed to me. I held the charm.

I stopped writing when I found another way to make use of my existence.
It all started when the other girls marveled at my new hair cut.
Gradually, I became more and more popular and I didn't feel the need to
write anymore. I didn't need to convince myself I was beautiful inside,
I had others who took an interest in me, and that made me feel
beautiful.

I persuade myself I have more self confidence in the inner world I
write in, and yet it is slipping away, and it scares me that I won't be
able to go back there when things get too unbearable here.

I suppose I have neglected my writing and supercilious ignorance of
everyone around me when life started to get superficially fun, that now
my eloquent spirit has neglected me.

I do feel I have improved in my writing, although it's not as frequent
that I hold a pen and try to create art, and my heart is not in it as
much. I think I miss last year's pain of needing to be accepting and
trying to be satisfied by accepting myself, because it gave me emotion,
it gave me inspiration. And even then, I firmly believed nothing else
mattered but my opinion in myself.

When did I change so much?

I learned so much from all the pain that was inflicted on me, and yet
I'm becoming too shallow to apply my newfound knowledge to my life. My
greatest distress is whether or not the contents in my wardrobe are
still fashionable. Something very trivial compared to my past
angst.

I want to break free and have depth again, and yet I can't turn my back
at the chance of becoming prom queen.