is it any wonder that I’m tired

My previous post was supposed to make more sense than it actually did, and it was also supposed to be followed by another post, but then I was called away and was unable to write for longer than I’d have liked, and also, it didn’t feel significant at all; waiting for nineteen to end did more to me than becoming twenty.

So why aren’t you looking?

That my mother would ask such a question both (in no particular order) surprised and amused me and left me wondering if she had asked out of obligation, or if she really wanted to know. What was I to say – what, really, could one in my situation say? I can only be glad that all she wants is for me to be happy, even if it’s a painful and difficult way.

I am not looking, because I will not find.

diecinueve

It troubles me to no end that after long months without writing whatever eloquence I once possessed is now lost to me – is there nothing that I can keep?

What have I done in this life that I can be proud of? I don’t know what I’m going to feel when I realise, after the proverbial dust has settled, that I am yet another year older; though not quite, yet, and I am filled with an impending sense of urgency to make something of this life, another deadline in a week.

There was so much I could have done, so much I haven’t, and so much I can’t. I want to go back and make all the same mistakes I’ve ever made, and more.