People grow up and get over their pain. They stop ruminating over their past, all the mistakes they made stop weighing them down, stop creating fingerprints in their future and they just… move on.
Something I haven’t been able to do yet. Somehow, I’m still here, alive but not living. Jealous of everyone who was able to break in two and still put themselves back together. You see, I’ve always cracked, fractured my internal being, aways have creased and bent in ways unimaginable by the human mind. But unfortunately for me, I’ve never broken. Never had the chance to fully break into a million pieces and start again.
Or, maybe I have. Maybe I was broken to begin with and have never had the chance to feel whole. That the cracks and fractures are created on a body already broken. That the reason it’s taking me so long to be mobile again is because, I’ve always been broken in the first place.
You see, my energy has waned over the years. The want to try has decreased immeasurably. I used to have hope, belief I could be something, do something with my life. Now? I don’t know what the point is because despite the beauty around me, I remain to feel on the outskirts of it all. So far removed from life, what’s the point of living it?
Nothing seems colourful enough on that side of the story, does it?