I am tired.
Bone-weary. I can feel it deep in my tissues and it aches when I move.
I am anxious often.
Anxiety rules my life. Fear is what I know, frustration drives me, and fatigue weighs me down.
It’s my fault. I made choices that put me here.
I make my home in mediocrity and the result is agitation.
I know I could have done better; I could have been better.
It will haunt me for years to come.
I am 27-years-old. I have so many years left, I know. But the approaching decades loom like shadows.
They tower over me, and despite what others say, I must face them alone.
I bought another car for myself. It’s the second car I’ve owned, same make and model as the last… but it should still be exciting, right?
I’m indifferent; I am unbothered.
In fact, I spent the length of the transaction wondering when I could go home and crawl back into bed.
As I write this, I am struggling.
The self-loathing is overpowering; it tells me my words, my thoughts, my feelings don’t matter.
Maybe they don’t. And I wonder if I will know happiness or if it will evade me indefinitely.
I don’t know. But I hope I find it.