What is this?

What is this? My story. I am not tragic enough to captivate an audience. I am aware that there is more out there for me. I am actually quite angered at my inability to act on the knowledge that I am headed for something big. “BIGGER at least.” I am okay if it doesn't come easy but my procrastination builds from ignorance. I can not for the life of me see through the forest to what it is I am suppose to do to get there. Or even where “there” is.

I have my stupid journals, three in my side drawer that I carefully edit to sound more dramatic and challenged than I am. It's kinda fun because you can live a different life in those journals. When you die someone will read them and believe that I really thought that way...I mean I must have if I wrote it. I have another little book of dreams. I committed to it wholly for at least 6 mons of one year.  I hold it close to my heart seething when my children reach for it for fear that they may taint it’s message. I believe it holds the answer somewhere in its broken words and hoarded imagery. Pasted together like some savage ransom note. It is like a key to some unknown treasure that I do not bother to search for. Worse, it's like the map to the X and I fear it will actually lead me somewhere so I choose not to decipher it.