Shell

I spend my days now drowning in music and making promises to myself I know I can't keep.  I can count my ribs when I look in the mirror without even trying now.  At one point, I think I would have been proud.  Now, I'm just indifferent.  It feels like I've aged a few years in the past two weeks.  But that's not exactly unusual anymore.

Life has decided that it no longer favors me.  Which is fine, I guess.  I've had a good year.  I'm just not looking forward to a bad one.  With age for me has come the realization that the rest of my life will be spent cleaning up the messes and picking up the pieces.  I never thought my life would amount to anything extraordinary, but I always hoped I'd escape the mundane.

It seems, though, that the mundane is inescapable.  That it is omnipresent.  That it is precisely what I am doomed to spend the rest of my life tending.  Perhaps this is the price I pay for having had extravagant dreams.  Or perhaps it is simply the price of failure in everything else.

I'm getting an awful lot of advice for someone who doesn't really like it altogether that much.  And it's all the same as it was two years ago.  Except it's more pointed, more insistent.  So here I am, the stereotypical idiot not taking it.  It's not even that I don't know what's good advice.  I just don't want to take it.  And I'm not sure if it's because I feel strongly against it or if I simply don't care anymore.

Lying on a sofa all day thinking about things I can't change and things that tear me to pieces is easier than resuming my life.  It is easier to lose myself in hopelessness than to bring my life around.  I'll be forced to my feet in a few days anyway.  I lose nothing now by allowing myself to slowly fade away.

The best of me has come and gone and all that's left is this shell of a human picking up the pieces.  I don't think there's anything left inside.