something I wrote on the 16th.
I realised something tonight.
I'm wasting my life.
I have the answer but I do not do what I should.
The flesh is able, but the mind is a mess, and it is fearful.
It's like suddenly thirty. Am I gonna wake up in fourteen years in an apartment I don't recognise? To a life I don't remember. To a life that seemed to chug along fine on auto pilot, but so unbearably empty.
'I don't remember my life'
Is this all it will be?
A big ball of hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades drifting away in the familiar, blending into grey until I am ninety and left wondering how the hell I passed the time.
I am nothing but a big pile of commitments unfulfilled, letters unwritten or unsent, promises unkept, faces indistinguishable, moments forgotten, sentences unfinished, ideas unpainted, gifts ungiven, words unsaid, stands untaken, points unmade.
I am boiling in the heat of choices unmade.
Just like these ancient checked things that blister tired feet,
I am more hole than shoe.