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.
Nobody becomes mediocre on purpose – it just kind of happens, gradually over time, through a series of compromises and just good enoughs until, eventually, they’re no longer actively attempting to be even remotely good at something but rather just not bad. And then, even at that point, being not bad isn’t exactly being good, either.
Limited options when dining in an environment that I cannot control. Reading labels on new foods and then googling ingredients I’ve never heard of. Hoping that the dietary aid designed to ease the pain caused by digesting lactose works to the extent that I need it to. Custom ordering items on a menu to remove milk-based ingredients. Food becomes less enjoyable. Food becomes a chore.
They buried you in the cold ground and then they placed a large monument, in your name, on top of the dirt above your head; nobody came to see it because everyone in your family was already dead. There’s a sort of macabre sense of curiosity that fills me with those questionable questions that you don’t usually ask aloud. Questions, like: what did the bugs eat first? Surely one does not ask that in polite company; even if the curiosity is piqued.