Some nights the mirror feels like an enemy.
My face looks wrong. My hair won’t listen. My body doesn’t belong to me. And the weight of it all folds into the same conclusion
I hate myself.
I care too much about things that shouldn’t matter. Numbers. Attention. Who stayed, who didn’t. I convince myself I’ll never be good enough. That dreams are nothing but dreams, floating too far above me to ever touch.
I whisper it like a mantra:
I’m not a good photographer.
I’m not a good filmmaker.
I struggle with things that should come easy.
But what I really want isn’t perfection.
I just want people to like me.
I just want the ones I love to love me back.
I just want to feel special. Important. Worth something.
And when the noise dies down and the night grows quiet, the truth circles back around. It’s sharp, it’s unshakable
but maybe somewhere in the silence, there’s still room for growth.
uncommonsight 