It’s funny, isn’t it

The moment it dawns on you that you’re finished. That you were finished a long time ago, years and years ago, but you couldn’t see it. You wouldn’t. You refused to. And now here is this delicate moment you finally recognize the void in you has grown. The pleasures of life are no longer yours for the taking. And your loss isn’t even deep enough to be tragic.

I feel this way at times about the passionate things in life, I worry that my time has passed, and it makes me moody sometimes. I know that I can’t tell the future so I isuslly only think this when I’m moody.


3 Comments Add yours

  1. I haven’t been seeing your posts. This sounds bad. Nobody’s finished, and we are all what is called in literary terms unreliable narrators.

    1. That’s a very good way to put it… It does feel good to be writing again at least.

      1. Good. I write even when it’s physically painful. It gives me the impression that I’m not losing all my time to whatever devil is plaguing me.

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