This Monday, I'll be turning 30 years old. When I look at the number 30 even now it doesn't feel real to me. When? How? Time is accelerating. Months rocket past me. I *feel* older. I look back on a life of regret and wonder how I could have ever been so selfish and foolish. I want to believe that I will be successful, that I will do great things, or whatever it is that an increasingly smaller but vocal minority keeps telling me. Yet I do nothing, spending most of my days alone watching the world catapult across my bedroom window. I struggle to think of a time that I ever felt in tune with life. I have snapshots - bittersweet moments that flicker through my mind each day. Those memories start to fade too, and increasingly I look back on the first two decades of my life as if they belonged to someone else entirely. For better and worse, I am a ghost of what I was. Perhaps my greatest gift, I still retain - my ability to lie. I use it less and less, and increasingly towards myself. "You will succeed." "This pain is only temporary." "One day happiness will come to you." These are the perfect lies. Promises of something so distant, it can't be outright denied, but not close enough to offer real comfort. These lies are flares shot into the endless dark, the last rays of hope setting over a cold and frigid waste. If destiny is real, then perhaps my destiny is to simply fade into the night, rather than blaze across the skies.
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