Hope

I feel worthless.

I feel worse than worthless, if that’s even a thing. I feel like a butt, but I guess even that has a purpose, expelling bullshit from the world and I suppose that is the noblest of professions.

Welcome to my head. I would warn you against reading any further, but if you do and happen to like or comment or share you would immensely replenish my ever craving ego and horribly flatter my false self-confidence.

So

I feel worthless.

I feel worse than worthless.

I compare myself to others and feel worse than that.

I rise and go to work every morning and get on my grizzel. I clock in and out, the whole time trying to force a smile and show people whatever sort of love resides in me and show of whom I’m made in the image of.

I go to school and fill in little bubbles and write papers and take test and go in debt for classes some of which hypothetically hold some form of importance and some which are meaningless. The whole time none of it seems to be settling in, which is unsettling.

I go home and have my mornings and evening mapped out by the hour, an hour to write, an hour to paint, an hour to study, an hour to relax, an hour to curl in the corner with my eyes closed, saying that everything will be alright.

I look at Logic and see how he got expelled from school at 15 and never went back. Still he is now living in self-actualization and seeing the fulfillment of his dreams. I look at Einstein and Steve Jobs and see their cultural importance, but they are dead and gone and hold no imminent connection to me. So I look at my peers and their profiles. But mostly I look at the likes they get and shares and followers and the pictures they post, the sunsets they’ve seen and from where.

Meanwhile, I set in my apartment eating ice-cream and worrying about getting fat, watching sunsets from Netflix and falling in love with people that don’t even exist.

*Sigh*

I pray a lot, but it seems the more I do the quieter he gets and the further away he seems and the more people tell me how he is the answer and how if I seek him I will find him. But I don’t think I can read enough books to find him, nor pray enough to hear from him, nor serve or fast to be enough like him.

I regret my years of drug addiction, not the things I did, but the time I spent, the friends I could have made, and the places I could have gone.

I try to find a way out of this pit I’ve dug, maybe to find some answers, but mostly so I don’t leave whoever’s reading this right now hopelessly depressed. So I start to think about how no one had my years of drug addiction, the immense pain I was hiding from. No one had the parents I had who in their own way unconditionally loved me and gave me the best I could ever ask for, but in the same way royally screwed me. No one had the friends I had, who passed me my first joint, having no idea what kind impossible purgatory it would open for me. Friends for whom I would like to think I would still die for even with all miles and years in-between. Friends that loved me even in the most hideous places I found myself in. No one had the brothers I had, with whom “I love you” and “I hate you” could be found in the same sentence, along with a host of profanity some of which was positive and some negative. No one has my mind, with which depression can run me ragged and cause me to anxiously count down the days till I see my therapist again, but no one has my mind which can find inspiration in a single grain of sand, which combined can make beach and the ocean floor, delicately cupping the waters of this world in her hands.

No one has lived my past, therefore no one is going to live my future.

No one but me that is.

So whether I lie dying in a soil gutter from alcohol poisoning and a broken heart in the same city, in the same state, in the same country I have always known or if I scatter bits of my heart to all the corners of the world and the people their lovingly and acceptingly wear them around their necks as totems, is entirely up to me.

I don’t suppose it happens by accident though, but rather by purpose, by planning, and by other people. Not everyone makes it though. I may never make a dime off any word I write. I may never accomplish any goal I ever set out to conquer.

But that is why I don’t live my life by “I may never”. I live my life with my eyes wide open, feeling every feeling, seeing everything, and reminding myself that my future hasn’t been lived yet and that holds something that is horrifying and something utterly exciting: hope.

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