A symphony of grand expectation clashing violently with reality. I’m tired of doing X and continuing to do X. I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’re both predictable in our inability to change. To grow. To live our lives. So curiously maddening that it makes me want to claw my eyes from their sockets and rip the skin from my bones.
So just what the fuck am I even doing is an appropriate question. You find it appropriate to spend hours slinging poison with poisoned people like you don’t do it on a regular basis and no, you’re right, you do deserve a night of fun because it’s such a rare occasion that the stars should align so perfectly as to allow you this one moment to forget who you are for the purposes of remembering who you were.
Identity crises aside there is but one important notion to contemplate: where are we going from here? It’s rare that we should consider such trivial things as the future and where our place is in it, but if we can’t even figure out where we’re supposed to be now, how do we cut places for ourselves out then?
Everyone else has completely moved on with their lives, they’re out there, man, and they’re living them! And what am I doing but sitting here, screaming at the silence in my own head, wishing I could muster the strength to move, and slamming my head against the wall as my back breaks back into that familiar position of not doing a god damn thing. I’m glad you’ve all found a place without me in it because it seems to me that wherever I’m not everything else can be.
I might as well be writing this on a park bench. The people who should be reading it won’t know what to make of it and the people who are reading it have no idea what I’m talking about.
None of it matters, anyway.