One Hundred and Forty

I'm still so bad at receiving compliments on my writing.
I don't know why.

When I click on the tags in this blog, all comments on writing are about how it's holding me back, about how scared I get of losing myself in words, or resentment. So much resentment; I tend to see that words are lovely but they also hold me back. And ironically in my wordy search for truth, I've only found that words are everything but truth. Maybe the better writer I am the better liar I am, too. The better webs I can spin, the better worlds I can create, the further I push myself away from what I'm trying to grow closer to. Reality, reality and truth I just keep diving down, further and further into a bottomless swimming pool and blimey I have excellent form but I can't find it. I just can't find it. I don't even know what I'm looking for, sometimes.

And why.
Why do I always feel like I'm running out of time?