“What are you doing today?”
“Avoiding life.”
As the year draw to a close, that seems to be the best summation of what I’ve done throughout this year. And when I say that to people, it’s not because I want to come off as funny or clever or anything that I’m usually trying to seem like–this is my reality.
I’m a chronic underachiever, an unlover, a tourist, a tourist, a goddamned tourist. And it pains me to watch people overachieve, excel, and be great, because they don’t know how not to be great. They don’t know how to come from broken families and they don’t know how to fall off the bandwagon, and they don’t know how to barely get it, and they don’t know how to not try.
And then it occurs to me that this once-internal anger has been since pushed out and onto those that I once admired, those I aspired to be like.
I want to fuck up, and then I want everything to fix itself.
Actually, I want to ruin everything to the point where nothing can be salvaged so that maybe I have a definite place in this cosmos, somewhere I can look from and say, hey, this is where I’m coming from, and I say this because I can.
Why do we climb some invisible social ladder to legitimize our self-worth? Why does your societal stance come from your academic prowess? Why am I being pigeon-holed into singled out area based upon some choice that I made when I was nineteen? Why do I feel so unworthy?
I don’t resent those that do better than me. I don’t scoff at people who don’t achieve as much. There will come a day when I decide that enough is enough, and that I must accept that I am capable of producing good, if not great, things. I will stop running away at that point.
Until then, I am avoiding life with everything I’ve got.
