Photo by George Hoza via Unsplash

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.




Classical Singer & Amateur Prose Writer

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Ada J. Raven

Ada J. Raven

Classical Singer & Amateur Prose Writer

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