Time had been kind to her, and the opposite to me. She was, without a doubt, in her prime. Whatever age that is, she was.
I, on the other hand, often appeared as if life had its way with me. There was never a dull moment, and because of this, never a smooth surface on the ripples of my flesh. Eczema.
These were cruel years for me, anywhere was better than here and now. Time has a way of drifting past unnoticed, silently slipping it’s soft fingers through my body as I sleep — as I fade further into the background, in it’s bold, terrifying shadow.
If for some reason you feel that none of this connects, that none of it makes sense, it is because it doesn’t. Despite my attempts to connect ideas and paint images for you, ultimately, the truth has its way with my writing. In that, I cannot escape who I am and what I feel. This stale, continuous pattern that plagues my day-to-day.
And to think, I once thought that I was creative and that my mind was coated in brilliant ideas.
Now, to remedy this, I’ve cut out the things in my life that capture and hold my attention more than they should. This was no easy task. I could barely keep my hands away from these things, much less so my mind.
But as the day progresses, I grow fatigued and beaten even by the smallest thing. To research, write, edit. It all feels overwhelming. The thought alone leaves me out of breath.
Defeated. Once again, until tomorrow.