Agony Is Better Expressed On Page
What can I compose that would change the world? Realistically, nothing. The world is far to big a place to conquer with either a military or a work of art. What can I compose the would impact millions? Again, realistically, nothing. I am far to young to offer up any real wisdom, and I will die before experiencing anything that would lead to any wise conclusions concerning the inner-workings of the mind. What can I compose to impact me? Unfortunately, nothing. I have lost the will to be inspired.
Recently, I have been thinking about giving up. I mean seriously considering it. It’s hard. It can always get harder, I know this, but I don’t want to go through this swamp of shit anymore. I hate the doctor visits. I hate the new prescriptions. I hate the phrase “we can beat this.” I am full of hate, cynicism, and redundancies.
I stutter when I talk now. That’s like the greatest joke ever pulled, a theatre kid, the smooth talking guy, struck with an illness that causes him to shake, stutter, and stall.
This is the only thing I can even come close to doing gracefully. I can write. I guess I will do this up until the last moment. At that last moment, left behind will be an ironically unfinished statement, a fragment, a phrase.
My life was a fragment that struggled to be a complete sentence… or my life was a sentence that was never served.
Either way, it’s getting hard.
I think I will leave.
I was happy there.