I am tired

  

I am not the hero of this story anymore. Sometimes none of us are. The days of an unparalleled feeling of feeling shit — keep hitting me every day. Look at me, please, will you? I am 20 or 19 or 21 — damn I can not remember how long I have been alive and for how long I lived. Look at me anyway — I have accepted defeat. There's only a burden out here inside my head that wakes up with me and then can not sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep: oh I don't remember when I slept last time; who does? My generation of broken romantics and dorks and creeps and intellectuals and whatever or whoever remains — we have outlived our grief. We text when we don't want to talk; we rant about everything that merely matters and hide about everything that greatly kills; our breakfasts are shorter than our breath cycles. Always scared; no background music to elevate our emotions — a depressed damned nation of youngsters. Don't tell me to hope and dream and whatever cluster-heck of part-time motivation you have. One has to grieve to gain. The pain must be felt to find the cure. This is to say I am done being the hero of this story where I am marginal — smaller than the rest of the world. I miss my cartoon times; school bags and torn book covers; my bicycle with one support wheel — it was a glorious decorum of a life. Growing up has been terrible. It sucks to suck this bad at everything that everyone else is apparently always doing fucking right. The insecurities; the inferiorities; the lack of lacking of whatever that was not supposed to be lacking — this is the story of every 8th 9th or 10th individual reading this story. I don't know any better. But damn I survived this long.