Things right now are the definition of strange. That relentless feeling that you are drowning, but you do not know which way the surface is to kick. You constantly have to catch your breath, although you had not realised that you were panicking. So many ideas of escape. How? Where? You sit there for minutes, staring into space, trying to figure out the incalculable. It could just be laziness, you think, this suffocation of two more years. But it is a necessary step, you must keep telling yourself, repeating it so that you do not start crying. And what is that, swelling up inside your chest? Something different; it tastes like the bitter tang of loneliness. Of not being important enough. You whisper to yourself that you must not care, that you must stop being so forgiving, stop giving but never receiving. Anger swells through your body, and the concoction it creates by mixing with the desperate panic is nothing short of poison. How are you even functioning? How do you get up in a morning, knowing that you realistically have sixty more years of this? It weighs you down, pressing on your shoulders like broken rocks.
You have dreams too, but you cannot play the guitar, and nobody cares about a word you write anyway.