Curled up in the corner of my bed contemplating my life and couldn’t help weeping. It hit me that I’m fucking twenty. Twenty. Why am I even here. Why can’t I be truly living. Am I destined to do this for the rest of my life? I wanna leave. So badly it tears my heart apart everyday, the thought that I may never will. The thought of how hard and sacrificial it would be If I tried, the battle I’m gonna have to go through risking everything I have to something I have no clue how it would turn out to be. It kills me how helpless I happen to be. How weak and fragile. It’s breaks me to know I can’t do anything about it. There’s one thing I’m sure of; If I was spending this night out there in a cold street on the pavement of an alley in a city where I know no one, I would’ve been more fulfilled. And much happier.
It scares me sometimes, the emptiness I see in my eyes.
أنت تقرأ مئات الكتب لتفتش عن ذلك الكتاب، تلك الصفحة، تلك الجملة التي ستقلب حياتك رأسًا على عقب، وتدمّر كل قناعاتك دفعةً واحدة
I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.
My eyes grew weary, my heart went heavy, my smile seldom came to light and The Smiths became my favourite band.