I used to dream of far-off futures.
You are now 26.
The dreams have died. You’ve lost some weight this past week worrying about a distant life that has no substance, no proof of ever existing. You get headaches. You cry in the middle of the night every time you realize
you are not enough
To save yourself.
No matter how much you strive and climb your way out of the tunnel, the well, the ditch, the hole you’ve fallen into there is no escape. Not by your own sheer willpower alone.
You are lonely.
Beyond words. Frozen in place.
Your heart skips a beat, not from excitement. You want to give up. You’ve created a new mantra to remind yourself to give up, to end it all.
You are tired.
There’s little you want to do. So, you write this letter to the younger you, to the you before you realized you were lonely. This is for you before the mess just in case you were wondering how the future is.
We are aching to be saved.
We are now almost 27.
Yet, nothing seems to have changed all too much. We still cry. We are still in pain. We are still wondering if happiness is achievable. We are still a mess.
We are still not enough.
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