What am I even writing this for? For whom?
For the fears that behold my dreams, for the sorrow that I have brought up upon myself, for the over troubled soul sits down for this.
For my mind that has gone off in its endless list of defaulting outcomes, outcome that I cannot control, for the circumstances that have befallen me, for being born, for being human.
I have dreams, I aspire to a lot. So much yet so little when I compare… the thing I shouldn’t be doing anyway.
I am afraid that my life may be passing me by, that my choices have left me in the same place for too long, that my friends have moved on and up yet I’m still here.
I am worried that I am not as privileged, not as affluent, not as famous, not as “with the silver spoon”. I am worried over conditions that I couldn’t have influenced, and for them I had very little to do with. I am angry, I am brooding, I am a time capsule lost within. My timing is too slow for me, my circumstances are too dire for me, I am here wishing for what if’s.
I am worried over aid I am not entitled to, even for the ones I think I should, slowly I’m burning but this time i don’t for anyone, not even for me. I burn for my fears, the worry that holds me siege, the comparison and “what people think of me’s”. I am worried that I didn’t have as much opportunities as others, especially in the face of their plain-right disregard.
I am worried that I dream too much, that I aspire for too much, that I hope for too many a thing. I am a bad dreamer, chronically optimistic and wishful.
“That if only things were my way”
Have I believed in too much of myself, of my fortunes, of expected outcomes, yes and yet in the face of trouble I cannot but dream and hope and pursue with worry and with pain and with anger…
if only things had been my way …