I remember that I used to laugh at people who I figured to have failed in life, but as time goes on the people I used to joke about seem more normal to me. I had such a annoyingly confident outlook on my life, I used to think that I was for sure going to get the best grades, get into the best schools, be the best person I could ever hope for. Now I work full time making just above mininum wage at Vaule Village, the " Number one thrift store in the world!", Oh god what have I done?
I sit here typing, hoping, that someone finds interest, maybe they can even empathize with me. See my failures through my words, feel my pains as I write them, maybe even in some small part of them like what I write. What does it matter what the other person feels though? Does their feelings alter mine? Does their feelings change my decisions? No I only march on in a army of forgotten souls. I am Alexander Miller today, and today I remove the bandaid from my heart, and begin to write to be healed once again.
