That little dwarf.

Remember when I said I had a beautiful growing family, a couple of posts back? Well, I meant my mom was pregnant. Yes, was. She's given birth to a beautiful baby boy named Hector. He's the cutest living creature on this side of the world, and probably the other.
I bring up the subject of the birth of my brother because thanks to him I'm happy right now, and I have the certainty, for the first time, that this happiness is going to last. Now I have something to live for. I want to be someone he can look up to, he can always talk to and count on, I want to be the one he wants to sleep with when he wakes up at 2 a.m after a terrifying nightmare, someone he can ask anything and trust to have the answers he's looking for, I want to teach him to love rock n' roll and all sorts of good music, I want to make him a guy with curiosity for the world (but not too much, just enough), I want to protect him, to make him feel as special as he is. That way I'll thank him for making me the luckiest big sister on the universe, and for saving me from myself. I never thought he would be the one to do it, but things couldn't have turned out better. In the end, yes, things have gotten better. So much better. And living to see it through has finally turned out to be worth it. So, so very much worth it. 

I push people away. That's what I do.

And one day, no one is going to bother coming back. 

I need a damn way out.

Ugly. Worthless. Never good enough.
Will it always feel this way?
I can't have any more help than I have already got. And this makes me feel so helpless. What if I do not make it out? Am I really stuck here? Have I got to a no return point? Is it too late to save myself? What can I do? Thankfully no one notices this mess inside my head. It must be the hair. It partially covers my eyes. They say eyes are the windows of soul. No one can see my eyes, no one notices what goes on with my soul. The funny thing is I don't even cry anymore because of this. I hate the girl I see in the mirror everyday. Not just her looks, but what I see through her eyes. That's nothing new. It's not worthy of my tears anymore, the story has grown old after all this time. You know something I hate too? It seems that I can't write about anything but hate. Hate this, hate that. Hate, hate, hate. That's why I draw, and that's why I play. I can't use words, so the hatred moves to a second place. It's just me and the paper, or the guitar/piano. And it's why I read. For a while I escape my world and sneak into someone else's. I learn about that someone, I understand what he goes through, and I see how he makes his way out.
Sometimes I've thought of writing down my story, but I don't even know where to start.
Besides, who likes sad endings?

Some songs I feel related to.

Mark Twain.

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the things you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.