Sick

I’m stumbling through a hallway. I’m not drunk. I wish I were, but I can’t put the drink to my lips. A brother is too far gone down that path, and even before it comes, I see that pathetic end. I’m not fucked out of my mind on drugs. Half the faces around me show what comes of that, and I’ve no interest in it. I kick in the bathroom door, breath heavy and vision hazy. But so have I seen the lives of those who don’t fall into the traps. What awaits them but a one size fits all future of averages and roads oft travelled? Mediocrity. And this is my fear: that I am too many things to become anything at all.

Too smart to be content, too stupid to change; too far removed to be heard,  too close not to feel; too wise to be happy, but too much a coward to die. I fear that in the end, I will see more coming than will those I love. I am afraid I will outlive all that makes my life worth living and still be too afraid to let go. So rather than die, I will rot for decades in a room by myself, until there is nothing. I vomit. The haze is further muddied by tears. Then, they drain and wipe away. All that is left behind is the dull hum of my stomach as I lay living in the stall. I wipe my mouth. I want to cry, but I know I won’t. So I walk to the mirror, rinse out my mouth, run a hand through my hair, and walk back out into whatever the hell it is we’re calling the world now.

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