I seem to work incredibly hard to not have hopes nor dreams to avoid the emptiness of them never actualising. I can’t even remember the point when I gave up. Gave up wanting. Gave up believing. Accepting the this. The now. To finally understand that this is all it is. This is all it will be. That the ability to change things is actually a fallacy. There will be no more.
I used to fight vehemently inside, some torrid war against life, with the fueling indignation that this is not it. This will not be it. This is not all there is. That this isn’t the life I was meant to have. Yet I grew weary. And jaded. And realised this is it. The one life. The chance. This is my life. This is what I am. This is all I’ll be.
That this is exactly all and what I deserve.
This is what it was all leading to.
And you can’t fight it. Because you can’t win.
It’s not about what you have. It’s about all the things you thought you’d have
There’s some naive assumption within innocence that your grown up quality of life will be at the very least equal to that which you were born into and raised within. Equal is the minimum. You expect it to be better. That you will improve it and keep improving. Yet it’s all bollocks. Absolute bollocks.
Your life is the victim of your choices and the survivor of circumstance.
It’s not an injustice. It’s life.
I need to let go of the standards I expected and embrace that which I have.
Why is it so hard to let go of the life you thought you’d have? To accept it doesn’t matter. It was just details.
To realise that essentially it ain’t ever going to happen.
Why do I feel so trapped?
I thought in accepting defeat I’d finally find peace.
I was wrong.
It’s the stupid things I want. The things I assumed we’d have. I guess inside I’m just a spoiled brat.
Or maybe just soiled.
I am much shallower than I thought.