I suck. I really do.
I suck I suck I suck. AHH! I'm so frustrated. It seems like every trait or hobby or "talent" I pick up never develops. So I end up feeling fake, like a wannabe. Which I'm sure annoys people, it annoys me. HTML- I suck. Writing- everyone else is so much better. Photoshop- ... I shouldn't even have it anymore. Contrary to what it may look like sometimes, I am NOT creative. *sigh* Here I am, staring at an icon I started for a contest and letting the fact that I can't even come up with what colors to use ruin my life. Nothing ever comes naturally for me. Sigh. Maybe I should take a break- a long one- from writing, HTML, and avatars. I shouldn't even be messing with this shit, I'm so fucking paranoid about that huge summer reading crap. I SUCK!!! *cries*
... Ahem. That should really be saved for my real LJ... Anyway- why I really decided to post: erm... Yeah I've been really angsty lately and decided to attempt to take it out in a slashy fan fiction. Um... I was gonna post it over at beatlesslash but a) it's not that great and b) there really aren't any names mentioned so... yeah.
Title: So Tired
Rating: PG- I dunno, you tell me- I used the "fuck" word once.
Pairing: Whoever you'd like to imagine, both male. I was thinking of George/John.
Notes: So I really have no real writing style, UGH, but... I suppose I am good at creating real emotions- and most conveniently- things I've been through. So yeah.
The presence of hot tears plastering to his cheeks didn't burn so much anymore; he had gotten used to them during nights like this. Nights where he was so exhausted but would rather be deprived than lay idle for hours, vulnerable to his mind. But sleep was his only relief. He lay awake on his back, unaware that he wasn't breathing regularly as his nose was stopped up from crying. It was simply and utterly uncomfortable- everything was uncomfortable, a painful drag. His entire body feeling as if it was going to collapse in on itself as he desperately held in giant sobs was uncomfortable. Constantly being in the presence of the one he admired was uncomfortable.
He brought his heavy arm up and rubbed his eyes before running his hand through his sweaty hair. He whimpered softly and, with a volatile force, kicked the sheet off of himself hoping to cool his burning body. But he brought it up again, feeling exposed.
Exposed. If only. He forced himself to look at his deep-sleeping roommate in the bed next to his. It only made him feel worse, observing his oblivious friend. Being so close- having him right there, yet feeling so insanely alone- it ripped him to shreds. It almost made him resentful- wasn’t it obvious? If only he’d wake up and see. Fuck- or read minds.
More tears streamed freely down his trembling face, and his body curled in and went rigid as he choked to keep in another large bone-racking sob. He felt pathetic; it would be so easy to fall onto his knees before the one whom he realized he willingly gave all his sanity and well-being to and exploit himself, the weight from his burdened heart evaporating out his mouth and out of his soul. It would be so easy to continue repressing everything, or to forget. But no. He was so blinded by everything that he could not see past rejection, nor get used to it; he could not see the benefit on his crumbling self should he simply let everything out. He was so blinded that he couldn’t think of what he was so afraid of, or why he even held on.
His body then decided to shut down, unable to handle the excruciating torment his mind placed upon it. He rolled to his side and forced his eyes shut. He let out a heavy sigh as his body slowly relaxed. He fell asleep to the sound of his deep breathing. There was always tomorrow. There was always the next night to go through the same twilight phase before slumber- there was always the next night to take notice of how the other man writhed and cringed under his sheets nervously as he witnessed his struggle unknowingly.
I could have gone through it once more to fix it up but I'm sick of looking at it.