Journal of a Dead End
It is a constant thing, placing myself in bad situations. For whatever reason I am delusional, here but elsewhere. Hours stack while idling, waiting for an unknown event which never comes. Some of it or most by haphazard decisions with lackluster rewards. Something seems damaged, defective after all these years. Constructed tracks in my mind leading to unfinished places. I arrive shocked, as if someone else was supposed to finish the path.
Somewhere in my mistakes, failures, and lack of drive are the very answers I seek. Answers to becoming a better person despite misinformation I’ve held on to for years. As with most things, stumbling over rocks occurs without looking down to see beautiful lessons in broken toes. Loved ones run from the monster I have become, unknowingly fucking up everything I come into contact with. Even in positive territory, the whisper of suicide attempts a sick calming speech. Promising rest for a weary man who tried but didn’t give enough of himself to anything.
Eyes growing dim. Aching muscles. Regrets too heavy for my shoulders to hold. Posting updates on social media by screaming, hey guys I’m dying only to hear, so are we. Wind attacking rooms as a reminder this building isn’t inside from outside but rests outside so I can imagine I’m not subject to elements. Begging strangers to deliver validation, acceptance, while ignoring valves within awaiting action.
Letter in a bottle, I have come to my dead end. I have come to the end of a road designed for people like me who search all over vast scenes only to ignore a most beautiful one under skin. Journal of a dead end.