I’ve lived my life so far doing so little.
Scared; anxious; hiding.
Nothing to show for it but a scribble. A mumble of words on some paper to make me embrace every moment from now on; to savour each memory before these memories are gone.
And for as long as I live without living I fear that day of regret.
Yet, still I accept the fact I neglect the perfect future laying dormant in a mind of distress, depressed.
Mourning the time I wasted I sit here to reflect; a confession to myself that this too is wasting time as well.
I write with intention to better myself, to steer clear of this day that I fear will one day come, yet even this will become time misused if I do not acknowledge that time can’t be outrun.
Still. I feel nothing but numb; I feel the same. Searching for solace in the words I rant, expecting something to change, forever wondering if I’m meant to remain in this unnamed state of pain.
Falling for the same tricks, I trip and stumble over and over again. How do I keep finding myself trapped in this cranial cage screaming for a way to escape?
With no one to blame except the one looking back at me, with no need for a mirror to reflect the true pain caused by my own brain.
Why do I set myself these unattainable aims? Why do I believe I’ll ever succeed if all I do is this same routine?
My biggest fear is time wasted, and favourite hobby is procrastination. And I don’t know how to work out this unbalanced equation of chaos that’s been formulated.
Talking to myself while I watch these hours slip out of my grasp, days pass as I wait—only to realise the answer always a little too late.
Life is no guarantee and time is only taken for granted. My only limitation is me as I sit here writing left-handed. Translating this worry to words, all these quotes that I imagine will probably, forever be just notes without action.
Loading comments...