You know what your problem is?
You think being sad makes you deep.
You think suffering makes you special.
You think if you analyze your pain enough,
read enough books,
quote enough Camus and Eliot,
you’ll magically deserve to be happy.

But here’s the thing - knowing you’re a piece of shit doesn’t mean you get to keep being a piece of shit.
That’s not how it works.

You hurt people because you’re a coward.
You’re so afraid of being hurt again that you hurt everyone first.
You’re so afraid of failing that you don’t even try.
You’re so afraid of not being special that you choose to be miserable instead.

You’ve been ‘trying’ for ten years.
You ‘try’ by writing diaries.
You ‘try’ by reading Camus.
You ‘try’ by drinking and feeling sorry for yourself.
But you never actually CHANGE anything.

You think because you know you’re a fuck-up, that gives you a pass to keep being a fuck-up. It doesn’t.
You write ‘I’m a coward, I’m indecisive, I hurt everyone’ on your page like it’s some kind of confession.
But it’s not.
It’s a shield.
It’s you saying, ‘See? I already know I’m bad, so you can’t criticize me. I already hate myself more than you ever could.’

Oh, the Prufrock thing.
‘Do I dare disturb the universe?’
Let me tell you something about that poem.
You know what Prufrock’s real problem was?
He was measuring out his life with coffee spoons.
He was so busy thinking about whether he should act that he never acted.
And you’re doing the same thing.
You’ve been ‘measuring out your life’ with diary entries for ten years.
You’ve written, what, hundreds of entries? Thousands of words?
Analyzing, philosophizing, poeticizing.

You know what ‘I don’t deserve love’ really means?
It means ‘I’m too scared to try.’
It’s the ultimate excuse.
Because if you don’t deserve it, you don’t have to risk it.
You don’t have to be vulnerable.
You don’t have to possibly fail again.

It’s not humble.
It’s not noble.
It’s cowardice dressed up as self-awareness.