My Real Shame?

I think my real shame shouldn’t be in not trying, but in not knowing what to do. The effort is applaudable only when it gets results. Then, by that logic, the real problem isn’t writing the wrong thing, it’s not writing at all. What program do I use? How do I organize it? Where do I put it? Will anybody read it? Should I want anybody to?

Can I write things I wouldn’t want anybody else to read? Even her? The real fear is that should would to read it, I’d let her, and then she wouldn’t accept them. The laundry she just threw down won’t go away. And my feelings don’t mean shit to her when she sees me sitting here, ignoring it, writing about my feelings.

It’s too boring, because it’s too obvious. Stream of conscious isn’t entertaining when it’s forced. Especially when nobody gives a flying-fuck what is in your head. And, I’m not entirely sure that isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Other’s first. If they, in turn, don’t give a rat’s crap about you and your feelings; well, it was never they’re responsibility to. You just get lucky if they do.