Man oh man.

If my mum was still alive she'd be so mad at me.
To see the mess I've made, that I'm not jumping to clean up, and how I panicked and let my frustration get to me. It was a gradual decline until we were racing down hill with only flimsy helmets, knee pads and white faces peering over white knuckles gripping the trolley.
I fucked up and I did it alone and there was no one to laugh it off with or comfort me so I collapse and I cry at the sheer injustice of it all because it's all on me. I fucked it up and I have this immense weight of guilt and old failures and that warm, trickling burn of ineptitude and feeling inadequate and of hot shame, and my bruised pride. The anger at myself for disappointing someone, and for taking on a task I could not complete, and yet another reminder I am not as good as I thought, or wish to be, or hoped I was, and that this is not something I have a natural flair for, and to pursue it would be the source of continued anger and shame and inadequacy and guilt, so I turn away and know that with each failure, each episodic defeat, I am closer to giving up my dreams. A tiny, glimmering dream that shrinks with each gust, however much we may shield it with our hands, and let the dream flourish behind walls where it is not put to the test, confronted, and thus not able to fail.
Also
Goddamnit. :(