Life is an endless void of destruction that is bearing down on our shoulders like the world did on Atlas. But we can’t complain because someone has it worse, somewhere people are dying so it doesn’t matter whether we only feel like we were.
Our eyes can only look but not see, because our vision has been tainted with scenes of a mediocrity which we are not allowed to obtain. Only perfection is a key but we can’t even find the lock so we must keep searching for answers to questions we can’t remember.
Our feet are blistered with indecision and caked with regret from walking down all the wrong roads, trying to follow the path to success while also being trailblazers ourselves. We’re not sure where we’re going but I doubt we’ll get there soon.
Our throat is dry from the greetings we must always have prepared when meeting out future. Our voice does not quake with nervousness any more, but now it’s become flat with lack of passion;
It’s all not because we want to, it’s because we have to.
Our dreams are haunted with the same old apprehension, a piece of paper slicing right through our hearts, shredding every ounce of hard work and dedication as it goes.
A simple sheet of paper stating the diagnosis: