You’re starting to realize now that your childhood is a ways off. People don’t remember the things that you loved when you were young. It’s fading, all those precious things to which you once clung are fading away. Kids seem stranger to you now, their interests obscene, totally foreign. You find yourself wondering sometimes if you were ever really like that.
There are people more accomplished than you’ll ever be who died long before they reached your age. They burned brighter, you’re nothing, invisible in the shade they cast. It’s too late for you to catch up, it’s not going to happen for you. The window is shut.
You’re getting older. Your hair is thinning maybe, or your breasts sagging. You ache in the morning, every joint sore. Your back hurts all the time. You get used to it, a constant low level pain, a betrayal of the body. It’s starting to crumble around you. But you tell yourself that you’re young still.
You tell yourself that you’ve got plenty of time left.
It’s not as easy as you thought it would be. Nobody seems to care about your work, nobody is especially bothered about you. You’re drowning, slipping below the surface way out from the shore, and nobody even notices you going under.
How bright a sun you were when all the world spun in your orbit, when all the heavens were arrayed after your fashion. How beautiful it could have been. But it didn’t turn out that way, now did it?
You keep trying, you keep hoping, but ever the nagging feeling that there isn’t anything waiting for you over that next hill. It’s not a crest, only a pause, the climb goes up and up, steeper and steeper. If there is anything up there, it’s going to remain out of your reach. You’re not going to get that far. You aren’t strong enough, aren’t bright enough, aren’t new enough.
And you find within yourself, growing like a cancer, the certain knowledge that this is, in the end, all there is for you.
If you would only stop fighting, only accept it, only allow yourself to sink gently down into the warm muck of common indignity, the sludge of human milk, the narcotic glow, the alcoholic stupor. If you would only let yourself go, you might be happy.
You might finally be content.
You might finally begin to love yourself.
Nurse your pain, flog your ambition, run your useless corpse screaming into the ground. You’re a waste and an outcast, a self-defeated narcissist, and this world was not made for such as you. You’re a bug that dreams it could be god, and you’re going to die with your pen in your hand and a bitter smile on your lips.
Happiness is for the weak.
Happiness is for the ignorant.
Happiness is for the cowards.
Happiness is not for you.
You’re not like that, you won’t let yourself be like that. Accept it, really accept it, and you might be able to live with yourself a little while longer. You might be able to endure this. The loneliness, the failure, the invisibility. It seems endless, but it won’t last much longer.
30,000 days to live, and fewer with every sunrise.