I’ve been thinking a lot and writing very little. So many trains of thought yet, nothing passed the screening test. They were too real and there is nothing quite as unimpressive as real life. No one wants to read that shit, I told myself. So I went on stringing together, pretty strains of meaningless words. I threw in a few rhymes into the mix and stirred until I got some perfectionist poetry. I looked at my creation, the captivating beauty that it was. All the praises soothed my greedy heart. But it didn’t last very long.
It’s like the conscious mind has a reset button. Every night, all your values are wiped clean and the next day you wake up a new person. Ashamed of my shallow past, the voices in my head wept. What about all your hopes and fears? What about all those nights you spent dreaming? I found them buried, in a lonely corner. A solemn grave for everything I stood for.
The worst kind of death is when you stop living for yourself.