It's not a silly little moment

Ah, john. Lyrically, he's brilliant and i love him. As a person...I bet he's a prick. : P teasing, lisa. don't kill me.

I've been insane with work lately, and so exhausted that all the moments that i tried to pretend never happened, all the things that i had swept under my emotional rug have been turning up over and over again. And so I talk to those I've always talked to, and i have been writing more.

And what i have come up with is this: a strange desire to appear like i have it all together to some, while allowing some weakness to show to others. I don't understand it, really. I've come away from this slowly being able to accept my own responsibility in the few bad things that have happened, and enjoy the multitude of good things. But i wonder: why do I always pretend?
I think that i see any sadness as a failure to adapt to my life outside of "home" -- that if i am sad, I fail. If something falls apart -- if I work too much and can't maintain a shiny, happy veneer, i am a failure at my life and a failure at my mask. And what do I have if I don't have my mask?

"Everyday she sits at her kitchen table, on her couch, in her chair, every day - a cup of coffee(or tea) in her hand and the ever present journal on her lap. She sits, hunched and completely disengaged from the outside world -- she's broken against her routine, smashed in to little pievces against the little things -- against the coffee table, the cutlery drawer, the napkin rings. Every day she sinks a little deeper, shatters a little more completely into this veil of shadows and dust. Every day she reaches out to those around her...and every day they ignore her. She feels like she is screaming underwater -- she feels liks she is losing breath pointlessly. Her air is limited-- no sense in wasting it. So every day she sits in her chair, at her table, on her couch as the signs of her death fall on blind eyes and deaf ears. She needs help, she knows. She fears it won't come."