I’m scared. Terrified.
That’s why I write.
That’s why I get intoxicated.
That’s why I philosophize.
And yet… I have not the slightest clue what I’m afraid of.
I can’t share my thoughts or heart properly. The message always gets across accurately. Never whole.
Life always feels incomplete.
The fun times end too soon. The bad times last too long.
This reality is dull. It’s boring.
Helplessness. As I get older the world appears crazier. I’m left questioning whether the madness increases or my awareness of it does.
My life summarized is Mildly Anxious.
The ups and downs are there. Always present. They’re unpredictability is nauseating.
The best is made of whatever comes.
I’m constantly realizing how little I know of the world.
And that’s just what I’m aware I know little of.
There are things I don’t consider exist. Things I wouldn’t think up in a million years.
Like all my beliefs, given to me. Heard them and followed whichever I agreed with.
I’ve never confirmed any to be accurate or true. Wouldn’t even know how I would do that..
It’s quite possible I don’t understand anyone and no one understands me.
I’m scared to die. But only when I think about it. And only some of the times that I think about it.
Don’t know if I’m succeeding at life or not.
Life sort of… Takes me.
To wherever I am. I don’t know.
From wherever I came. I don’t know.
To wherever I’m going. I don’t know.
I’m happy from time to time.
Miserable from time to time.
Not sure why the things that cause either do.
I’m not even sure what the point of writing this is.
But I am. I guess this is how I “succeed” at life.
I think that’s the goal.