Yesterday, was yesterday.

I'm not a writer.

This thought came across my mind yesterday. A web of self-doubt was weaved before my eyes, as my peers and professors threw their comments across the table. Yet, I was the designer of it all. This web that I've caught myself in.

Workshop is workshop. That's all it is. I don't think I'm amazing and I don't have thick skin. Why did I take it so personally? I'm not sure. Maybe it's because I'm too nice. That's what my sister says at least. I need to get mean. Whatever that means. I'm small, petite, with a soft-spoken voice. I don't think mean is in my nature...

Now, I'm living a very temporary life it seems. A life that doesn't seem to belong to me. I feel like I'm just going with it, because I've become so dissociated with the world, that I'm just trying to latch onto anything familiar. The scenery's changed and I guess I'm just seeing where I fit. I understand this is a part of life, but I know I will never fit society's "mold". I won't be what others want me to be, but that doesn't necessarily make things easier. I'll always be on the outside looking in.

And I think that is the reason why I write. So that I can place myself somewhere. So that I can fit within my own design. My own web. I just need to clear away all of the cobwebs that have haunted me and accept what is and go on. I don't write for you or for anyone. I don't write to be heard or recognized.

I write for me.