I could sit here for hours — mechanically scrolling and clicking, scanning and double-clicking — if it weren't for the panic that comes. A panic that I must — I have to — go to bed, because I have things to do tomorrow.
But I don't.
Then I panic because I have people depending on me.
But I don't.
Then I panic some more as a list of things and people and events and responsibilities filter through my numbed mind. Yet each ones ends in,
"But I don't."
I don't have anything. Anyone. What could be a liberating experience of no expectations mutates into a crushing realization of worthlessness. Of my own worthlessness.
Yet I know that isn't true. Strange how I wish it were true for the mere melodramatic, pathetic, sad-story-for-the-sake-of-evoking-emotion-in-my-writing reason. There is so little interest in the everything-is-alright stories. Everyone knows that. And if you don't, well, now you do. What's exciting about normality? About average? About "just right"?
So, as much as I would like this story to be a heart-wrenching, soul-searching glimpse into a life that you thank the heavens you aren't living, chances are you are living it. Something like it. And chances are, you are equally disatisified with your disgustingly satisfying life, but seek somehow to make it unique amongst the emense evidences of ordinary.
Oh, I suppose we are all special. We're all unique in some way or another. And this time of limbo for me is legitamately out-of-the-ordinary, with no job, no friends, no car, no money. But it is, by no means, a call for over-dramatization.
Although, it would appear by my preceding paragraphs, it is a call for hyphenation.