It isn’t just me–everyone around me has stopped writing. How did we get this far and leave the one thing we loved so much behind? The words do not flow as seamlessly; our writings lack the elements of poetry. Words and sentences are dull. Is this an indication that we’re turning into boring adults?
A week ago, my watch ended. I don’t intend to write anymore. The soul is tarnished, the energy depleted. It even feels like I’m running out of time when I don’t know what race I’m in. Maybe the edge of 24 makes you feel like you’re fucking old. I didn’t waste my time in the past year or so but I definitely could have done better with all the freedom I had. Now is a new beginning, one which starts with hope.
Tomorrow I wake up to forget my past. The wickers can’t bother me now because when they grow they ain’t cool anymore. I carry a reputation and I identity, one building up its magnificence. Now, it needs building. 2019 was yet another breakthrough. 2020 will need shining.
The nihilist 