Embarrassment. What does it really mean? I read over some of my old writings and feelings of embarrassment flooded into my being. Why should that embarrass me? Why should I feel as though I ought to explain myself. Where does this sense of oughtness come from?

There a million thoughts rushing through my head and I cannot seem to catch one in order to express it. Reading what those around me write, I ask myself this question, "Who do I think I am?" I am no one. I cannot write like my peers, I cannot express my heart like the great writers before my time, I cannot pray a single concise thought. My whole entire mind is a wreck.

The only thing I can muster is complaint. Is that what I have boiled down to? Homework, procrastination, my life, my future, my past. Is it possible that my heart can have some other response besides confusion and frustration. For some reason it seems that life should consist of more than that.