I’m still shocked. I don’t know how I made it this far, but I did it—I turned 25 last week. I genuinely never thought I’d make it past my 22nd, yet three years have somehow passed. A lot can happen in three years, but I feel…static. I may be making waves with my writing, but I’m still falling and I still feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome. I told myself I wouldn’t live a day over 25, but tomorrow it will have been exactly a week since my birthday.
Everything just seems useless now. Why edit my book? Why indulge my creativity when I won’t ever have an audience? Why even bother waiting to see how the email responses will go? Everything just seems pointless when you’re always tired and apathetic. Another day is like a mistake; why push through when your soul is already dead, waiting for your body to catch up?
I haven’t experienced much. I still live in the same small town I grew up in, I don’t know what love is, and I don’t believe there’s anything good waiting in the wings in my future. All I do know is that despite what my one friend says, I don’t have much to offer and I don’t really belong here.
My mind’s ready to go, there’s no doubt about it. But my body? The thousands of microbes inhabiting my body seem to have the upper hand because they’re fighting equally as hard to stay alive. Yet there’s that gut instinct that’s constantly going “it’s your time.” I just want one thing to make me feel like my life’s worth hanging onto.