"It's like you're playing the piano for ten years and you still can't
play 'Chopsticks,' and the only thing you have to keep you going is the
belief that one day you'll wake up and play like Rachmaninoff."
There you were -- a wide-eyed freshman with goals and dreams just like everyone else. Of course, some were genuine while others were externally imposed. But no matter. You were here now, and the world was yours for the taking.
You told yourself that this was your one shot at reinventing yourself to become someone else, and so you did. As the semester continued, you slowly realized that everybody had bought your new personality. But you never really bought it. No, too bad you didn't realize that until you met...well, him.
You soon met your soon-to-be best friend "Mike" through a service group, and fell into a fever. You wouldn't dare admit to anyone that you had a crush on him since that would make you seem shallow and far too injudicious with your heart. So you allowed yourself to secretly fall for him. Whenever he needed someone to talk to, you enthusiastically obliged. Whenever he wanted to go out to eat, you made sure you were available. And so naturally, you would grow to reciprocate his requests.
But even though you both were asking the same questions on the surface, you knew that behind each invitation to dinner, you were always hoping for something more. And hope you did. You carefully tried to give more signs. He kept spending time with you. You started joking about being a couple someday. He kept doing nearly everything with you.
So one night, you couldn't help but ask -- is there something more between us?
He said no, not right now.
That is your story. And though you're too embarrassed to admit it, that's essentially the singular source of everything you ask me about.
And you keep asking because I'm not giving you the answer you want to hear.
That's why you keep saying that you're screwed and that nobody likes you. Of course, we both know that's a blatant lie. Sure, you make it sound as if you just want somebody to say that they like/love you so that you know you're not a total failure. But in truth, you don't want just somebody. You want him.
So you keep torturing yourself, beating yourself up over your inability to play something as simple as "Chopsticks" on the piano. Yet you still won't give up and pick up a different instrument. No, you've already set your mind on hammering out the same two blasted notes on the piano over and over until the steel strings snap.
All this so that you can continue to believe that somehow, someday, you'll wake up and suddenly be able to play like Rachmaninoff.
Call me a pessimist, but I don't think that day is coming.
All you're doing is throwing stones at the sky and expecting them to come back as diamonds.
