doubt

Everything I've written. My ability to write. My ability to be, freely. I doubt it all. The usefulness of therapy, the impact of my dreams, my observed reality. The smiles that seem so real, is it only politeness? My emotional intelligence and my ability to confront my ego. Is it a delusion? Are these words depressing to you? They aren't to me. They just are. I feel disdain thinking you might feel sorry for me. Maybe I need to learn to accept your pity. If I could truly write well, I'd write to make you smile. I'd delicately portray how it makes me feel when we talk. I know I don't have the words for it. Is there strength in admitting this? It's stronger to learn. I've been lacking. I'm afraid to challenge my emotional state. It's fragile and overwhelming. I say just enough to speak to you, just enough to speak with truth, but not enough to transcend my woes. I'm already forgetting. Vibrant moments fade like a dream. This Sisyphean struggle to maintain memories to create better ones. To grow, I must remember how I felt, truly. What your words really meant and how I may distort them. I want to maintain the purity, the beauty that was. The admiration that was so real and unexpected. The songs that carried me through the day. The silence that betrays my foremost desires. The silence that was not taken personally nor dismissed. These words, if they truly mean something. I can never tell. If I mean something to you. Maybe just a little. That's enough for me, in time. Right now, I doubt. Until I remember, in moments of clarity.