It can be a lot.

As an introduction to this, please see this video.

It pains me to know that the life I have chosen (at such an ignorant age) deals with caution, appointments, deadlines. Because I want it. I want to be there, in the lights, no looking back, man I’m ready, let’s go. No more waiting for the stomach to tighten, no more loveless nights of tears, no more laughter that feel uncomfortable. Wait, what’s wrong with me that my laughter is uncomfortable? My smile is numb, my stomach is sick…

This makes no sense. I was destined. I had the world in the palm of my boney hand. Now the world is forcing weight on me that I didn’t even call for or plan for. This wasn’t the plan…

My rib cage has no space to contract in the oxygen I need. My lungs are inflamed. With hatred? No, more like wheat. Are they different?

Being a grown up doesn’t mean you’ve grown up. It actually means you’ve gotten through 20 f**king years of struggle and hardship. So, you’ve earned it. But it’s not even over yet. Life doesn’t magically become your to manoeuvre. EVER. So why is it so important that we rush past these years? Do we need to endure the slouching days of sighing and pencil crushing? is it required? Because I DIDN’T f**king SIGN UP FOR THIS. I didn’t fill out the form. I was too busy crying about the last bowl of cereal I ate in tears over the last bowl I ate in tears over the last bowl I ate in tears over the last bowl. I ate. Eating up all the nutrients to fail. And then I’m suppose to smile with comfortable teeth that aren’t filled with food. Great… well I missed that form too.

English has taught me to be cautious of my words. To be greatly invested in what you’re doing. To see past the black and white page. To know there isn’t always a happy ending. To feel blessed with the kindness of your own life. To be, to see, to know, to feel. All these humans things. And I still get to be young.

All my friends make the world less hellish. I guess?

Making me feel less hellish. I guess?

Wondering if they’ll ever be like me. And they can’t. They’re lucky and blessed with their beautiful lives. I have to suffer.

Will I reread my life when it’s over? Am I just a story? Are my actions and feelings turning black and white immediately as I pass through them? Am I passing through them? Or are they passing through me? Why are there no answers?

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