Too Nice Too Long

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 People are social animals, but I was never socialized. I take the blame for that, since I was a loner, lost in a limbo where I never fit in. I confess my obsessive need to be nice prevented others from accepting me. Because I didn't want to make enemies, I was unable to make friends. Oh, I suppose I have friends but they don't know what to do with me, and now I find myself adrift, further and further away from them as I muddle through my sad excuse for a life. For example, I wrote a great song the other day, but aside from the young lady at the music store where I figured out the chords for it the other day, it will go unheard. Perhaps I could play it at a local open stage soon, but that's not enough, not nearly enough. It depresses me to think about it, so I won't, and accordingly, this opportunity will slip from my grasp and leave more cut off from the society in which I live even more. Does that even make sense? The contortions I force myself into I can't possibly explain to others, much less figure it out for myself. Sometimes I think I wasn't made for this era. I should've lived in caveman days, where I would have made a great shaman. My liabilities would have been a plus, not something that would disqualify me from success, from love, from having any real hope at all. Still, I will fool myself again, and grasp at my little triumphs, mainly because the alternative would be to slip into a madness too profound to ever escape, or to be understood at all by anyone, no matter how empathic that person might be. Is suicide the answer? I don't even know what the question is. 333