Monster

I'm friends with the monster

That's under my bed

Get along with the voices inside of my head

You're trying to save me

Stop holding your breath

And you think I'm crazy

Why don't you be the artist

And make me out of clay

Why don't you be the writer

And decide the words I say

'Cause I'd rather pretend

I'll still be there at the end

Only it's too hard to ask

Won't you try to help me

I've never been one to make sacrifices. All my life I've been lucky enough to be on the receiving end, with people willing to accommodate and make adjustments in their lives for me. And I thank them. I thank you.

This is probably the first person I'm making conscious effort to tweak little parts of my life for, changing what I can to make the other party feel better. That's probably a sacrifice, at least in my books. This new and foreign action brings about feelings I've never experienced. On one end I feel pride in myself, being all Mother Theresa ish and making changes for people (although in no way as patriotic nor martyr-like as her). On the other I feel this weird feeling of dissatisfaction looming within me.

It feels odd, peculiar and somewhat strange, this feeling. I haven't quite begun to comprehend why I'm feeling this way. And it bugs me. You can bet it irks me to no end, unable to pinpoint the reason for my frustration. A part of me is telling me to stop giving in, to halt this foreign behavior. Is it worth it

I feel like I'm going to explode at any moment. And nothing I've thought of can quench this impending feeling. Maybe there are too many changes going on. Maybe I can't cope with it all. Maybe that's why, for the past 6 months, I've been clinging onto the familiar. Because there's always comfort in the familiarity; and right now I'm right smack outside of my comfort zone.