#21
So here we are, we are 21. The big 21. How does it feel to be 21? Well, not that different. I feel the same as I felt in the last few moments of 20. The only difference is that now I could legitimize my age even though I feel a lot older than that. Now this isn't some sappy message when I tell you guys that I'm so old, and how I'm turning into a grandma. Because for me, the older I get, the more I yearn for more growth and maturity.
In my recent 21 years of life, I will just to say one thing to humanity. You all suck. Truly, you truly do suck. Y'all had to finally break me in the cruelest way possible. And not only did you break me, you also had to twist the knife and remain present as a reminder of the pain and emptiness I feel every day. I wished, looked, searched and prayed for you but yet that wasn't enough. Instead, you find a way to hurt more people. You found a new recipe that tells you how to become more selfish. You do whatever the heck you want. Hurt whoever you want. Inflict pain over and over and over and it never seems to be enough. You keep going. Don't you see it in my eyes? When I try to give you a genuine smile, but it comes out like an ugly cracked glass. When I try to find my hope and my search is futile because you had to take it again. And you the cruelest thing you ever did, you couldn't let me be.
You couldn't let me throw in the towel. You couldn't let me become you. You couldn't let me walk away. It's like breaking someone's heart, knowing that your very presence causes them pain, yet, you keep them around. You would love that, wouldn't you? To see the pain? Do you really see it? Or is the filter over your eyes too heavy for it to be lifted? I wouldn't mind if you never saw it but you disappeared, but I would be considered lucky if I got a second to breathe. Yet even in my very breath, you are still present. Haunting me. Giving me enough just so I could want to try again, but then snatching it away when a slither of hope whips by. Yet you can't let me be.
My very essence calls for me to rise up. To go, try again. Yet I cannot and will not, even though the burden of that decision makes me no better than you. But I guess that would make sense because I am you. Or am I? I have the potential to be you. I want to be you. But only because the perceived freedom that you portray is like droplets of water in a dry, cracked, and empty well. Yet I cannot. I cannot. And not only do I try, but I convince myself that it's working. Until my suppressed thoughts get too loud. And once again, we are back to square one. It's sad really because the perceived freedom that you offer accumulates more sewage, which ruins me.
So here we are, with two perceived cups. Purpose or Freedom. I've been choosing purpose, but the cup that I drank seems to be killing me, ripping apart the already broken glass. But freedom leaves tumors. With full knowledge of what both entails, I chose to lay with my glass.
Until next time,
