The Oldest Living Boy
It's not going to be anything special. In fact, it can't be; it's just about 1:30 in the morning, and I'm fucking exhausted. Problem is, lately, I've been having a lot of trouble sleeping. Not sure entirely why really, but I've been working longer hours, and have been in and out of being sick enough to warrant an almost nonexistant lack of 'downtime,' or 'rest,' or whatever. So that's the start. It isn't much, but it sets the tone. It isn't much at all.
I suppose it boils down to this, though. I'm sick of not making an impact. I'm sick of waking up, going to work, and coming home too tired to do much else. I'm sick of stagnating while my friends are out getting an education; a five-fold "I'm doing something with my life!" plea that doesn't mean a fucking thing, but ends up working out towards everything that "DOES mean something" in this country. I'm tired of strangers not knowing my name by mention. I'm sick of my somewhat impressive writing talents going to hell because I don't have the fucking time, or drive, or creative impulse to do something with it. I'm tired of being tired of all of these things, and that prospect alone exhausts me. I'm needlessly wasting away what few talents I DO possess, and I think it might be long enough. I need to go outside and scream, and run, and bleed. I need to make my life more vivid; more colorful, and active, and outrageous. I need to stoke dead fires with unspent dreams; I need to unravel a thousand and one regrets, burn them into whatever ashes I find sufficient, and scatter them throughout the world. I need to write. I need to send out a million copies of a million essays and demand to be heard. Demand to be loved, and hated, and respected.
I'm going to go outside, and I'm going to take a walk. Not because I have to, but because I want to. And I'm tired of not doing what I want.