A Clock’s Face is a Life Broken

A lot of times I will say that I am scared of giving up. But, as much as I hate giving up, I am not truly scared of it. You know why? Because I know I will always try again. Every single time I give up, it is never a concern of mine that I won’t try again. I always do.

What really scares me is never finding success. Never finishing what I started. I am scared that I will always be left trying again. 

I feel so distanced from success that my mind cannot picture me possessing it.  So, I give up and try again. 

It sounds good but I have had lots of time to think it through. 

When I try again I know I am only making another attempt just to meet failure again. To meet my own failure. The worst kind. Where it is completely in my hands. Where I give up. 

And you know what I do? I try again knowing I will fail. 

Does it bug me? 

Does it destroy me? 

Yes.

But I keep doing it. When I give up it hurts me, so bad I almost don’t get up. Someone whispers in my ear, someone evil. The voice I swear must hate me, reminds me that I have felt worse pain. I get up and try again. Unfortunately, the curse I carry left out the fact that the only pain worse than giving up, is trying again. It is too late. 

I am full of regret. Regret for something I haven’t achieved and something I know deep down I never will. 

I live my life on the face of a clock. I have regret for missing a number, yet I feel, and I know, that I will always come back to it. Though every return around time is a promise of a goodbye. I wave goodbye to success every time the clock’s hand reaches to grab it.

 I am stuck in a prison and my sentence will never end, not until I have proof. Proof that I am rightfully regretful. A sick part of me is excited to be proven right, that I couldn’t do it. Maybe then, by being right, then I will meet success. 

I wish that I could just give up, accept the defeat I know I am destined to have, and embrace the loser I am bound to become. But no matter how much I fear trying again, I do it. 

I suppose I don’t care about my fears, that I am reckless, crazy, and insane. It’s a horrible way to be. A part of my mind is out of my control completely. That part doesn’t care about what I really want. It doesn’t care that I am beating myself up all for what I am dying, hoping is my last attempt. That part is stronger. 

So, I know I will never change.

 I will never leave this cage of disappointment. Or abandon the self hatred for a part of me I don’t even know. A girl I only confront when she is too loud for me, the real me, to be heard. 

What I hate more than anything, what scares me more than anything, is that girl is me. 

I am a liar. I told you that the person who causes me to fail, the person who causes me to try again, I told you that girl is not me. I am so pathetic that I can’t even admit that it’s me. It’s me who can’t do it. 

I wonder, being so weak, if eventually, something thrown my way, will break the face. Of the clock, that is. 

If not, the clock’s own hands will break the cycle. They will break the clock.