Disappointment

Expectations hurt and everybody knows that already. I'm not going to get on the same old band waggon and write about how people disappoint you and how much we get hurt. I'm looking on the flip side. All the expectations that people have from us, and then we disappoint them. This other side has never been looked upon before. It's always about us, and not them. No one cares about all the hurt which we give to the world.
There are various expectations connected to us by our families, friends and even strangers. But it always feels like it has never been able to be fulfilled. Something is always missing. The done is ignored, and the undone is evident. The flaws are found; the imperfections prominent. The completion is never acquired, or so it seems to me. Nothing is ever perfect.
That disappoints me. I may not be perfect of course, but I sure am not that worse for wear either. But then why does it feel as if everything I do is always wrong? And if, by a miracle somehow, no fault is picked out, I'm surprised. I've become accustomed to be criticized, and maybe I do deserve it. But all the time is just not possible. How can every single little thing be imperfect?
I try to paint my world with the colours of optimism, but sometimes the paint dries in the tubes. And my paintbrush can only paint strokes of faded colours. A feeble attempt at colouring up the easel; my world. Yet, at times, even those strokes turn raspy and the crackle of a dried paintbrush is all you can hear which gives nothing but misery.
Optimism is a tall, cool drink; refreshing and slender. But disappointment is the heat which makes it go lukewarm and unattractive. The condensation drops on the cool surface of the glass evaporate as quickly as a sigh of disapproval make your brightness vanish. It is unavoidable and the answer is to ignore and let go, but at times it reverberates in your mind like sound waves crashing against a gong. Redundant and increasing in momentum, the criticism covers all other aspects of life which radiate happiness and warmth.
After a few hours, it goes away, but the damage is lasting. It's inscribed in the brain as a memory, never to be forgotten, but to be compiled in the Book of Disappointments. The heart feels heavy, and the lips crack to even fake a smile. Nothing seems to really matter any more. But the worst part is, it cannot be set right. What is once done, cannot be undone, however deep the regret or remorse. But hope is eternal, and it will strive to go higher than before, but only to crash harder the next time. But in my defense, there is only one thing that I can say:

After all, I'm only human. And that's my saving grace.