If you go straight long enough, you'll end up where you were.
Most everyone I know seems to have a really good hold on working towards doing something they love or really want to achieve in their life. I have no idea what I'm even doing. I'm just running around like a chicken with its goddamn head cut off, to paraphrase every grandparent on the planet. I'm really disappointed with my life at this point in time and how little I've done with it that I've wanted to do. I'm not saying this because I feel like it's a deep, confounding problem that no one has ever experienced - I'm saying it because I've never thought so much about being this close to 30 before. I'll be 27 this year anyways. I've always had this feeling like I'd be approximately where I wanted to be in life at 27. It's such a good year to get your life where you want it because you aren't a middle aged old shit yet, but you still have enough of your mental faculties developed to have a vague idea of what you're doing (or so you'd think).
I'm creatively constipated and I'm at a point where I'm sinking further and further into the boring oblivion of that which is adult complacency. You'd think that I'd wake up one day when I'm 60 and realize I've wasted my life not living it how I truly desired, but I'm feeling it now, recognizing the consequences of doing so, but still seeing myself melt further and further into that horrible, unstimulating sinkhole. I've waxed poetic for so fucking long that I genuinely have no goddamn clue how to actually fix anything that I'm discontent with. All I know how to do is bitch eloquently about it. So it goes.
Everyone I know has left or is leaving and those left, well, I don't believe them to have any interest in continuing to keep in contact. It's a neurosis a 15 year old would have and I recognize that, but hearing others speak candidly about what a grand old time they're going to have when they get a circle together to hang out directly in front of you, but make positively zero effort to inform you that you would also be welcome, kind of hits home pretty hard.
I suppose all I want is a continual adventure and a few folks who occasionally desire my presence who I can have a conversation with that doesn't solely involve nonsensical toddler babble.
I'm creatively constipated and I'm at a point where I'm sinking further and further into the boring oblivion of that which is adult complacency. You'd think that I'd wake up one day when I'm 60 and realize I've wasted my life not living it how I truly desired, but I'm feeling it now, recognizing the consequences of doing so, but still seeing myself melt further and further into that horrible, unstimulating sinkhole. I've waxed poetic for so fucking long that I genuinely have no goddamn clue how to actually fix anything that I'm discontent with. All I know how to do is bitch eloquently about it. So it goes.
Everyone I know has left or is leaving and those left, well, I don't believe them to have any interest in continuing to keep in contact. It's a neurosis a 15 year old would have and I recognize that, but hearing others speak candidly about what a grand old time they're going to have when they get a circle together to hang out directly in front of you, but make positively zero effort to inform you that you would also be welcome, kind of hits home pretty hard.
I suppose all I want is a continual adventure and a few folks who occasionally desire my presence who I can have a conversation with that doesn't solely involve nonsensical toddler babble.