You're supposed to be having the time of your life. Meeting new people, learning, having freedom. But the reality is demonstrably opposite to this expectation. The wild nights filled with excitement and discovery become the same monotonous routine. Let us sit down, in front of the telly. Let us open another bottle of booze, to try and feel better than we did, or feel anything at all. Let us talk about how depressed we are, let us cry, let us tell each other everything will be ok, let us repeat the next day; and the next and the next and the next. Wake up with a hangover, wake up with a lack of breath, wake up with an increasingly fast heart rate, wake up feeling scared to start another day feeling nothing. Get up and pour water into a glass, get up and open a window, pace around, wait for anxiety to become slightly less intense than feeling an inch away from death. Hope that maybe today will be different from the last, until boredom comes around, until you release a heavy breath and walk to the shop for more booze, take that first sip, feel relief, and then pain that you've done it all again, you've given in, you're weak, and you don't know where the finish line is on this awfully slow race to happiness.
