I guess this is for Inktober day 5?
Yes, I haven’t done Inktober day 3 or 4. Yes, it’s October 8th. Yes, it isn’t really ‘long’, is it? Yes, the writing itself isn’t 500 words long. I don’t care.
The real name of this is ‘Thursday’, by the way, in case anyone wanted to know. I guess the writing itself will better explain my awkward introduction, so here we are.
I'm bad at this whole 'motivation' thing.
Even when I manage to find the words to say to myself to give me drive to work
I still fall short, fall back into a dangerous routine, a pattern of sleepless nights juxtaposed against a background of unfinished work
Sometimes I wonder if it's just me
If everyone else has the internal engine that lets them force themselves to do something even when lacking any motivation
Sometimes I really believe it's just me
It gets lonely at the top, reaching the summits of a mountain of homework and missed opportunities
Sometimes I wonder if it's just me
If my life is ever changing, interesting, and new and it's just me that is mundane
Stale
Stale like the cereal I have for breakfast every morning
Even when I barely have the motivation to eat
I don't think I'm depressed, just empty
I don't think I have a personality
Sometimes I wonder if it's just me
If everyone else grew older and sprouted traits and interests and I just wilted and withered away, losing weight and color
I think about every opportunity I've missed, every statement I forgot while speaking that I didn't ever remember
Won't ever remember
I think about these things and get seasick
Rocking back and forth in queasy motions
Dark ocean waters crashing against the inside of my skull
Illuminated by no light, no moon
Just migraines in my lost eyes
Sometimes I think about not being alive
I don't think I'm suicidal, just empty
I don't think I want to exist at all
Life is the light of a thousand suns
But that does no good for a blind man, calling out into the night for himself
Even the weekend brings no rest, even rest brings no energy
Just brighter suns that warm your skin and heart and you tell me to just open my eyes
But my eyes are open
It's just that I can't see
It's hard to say goodbye to the things I write
Even if I keep them close to me forever
Publish them, print them out, frame them on my wall
There will still always be a moment where they are finished, where I have no more to add
I feel the urge to cling to them, to cry, to beg for them to give my life some sort of meaning
But it falls on deaf ears
I'm asking myself
My writing is a part of me and I have no answers
Every day is a Thursday to me
They aren't the end
They aren't a fresh start
They're just another day and I have nothing to say about them
I desperately want to keep reading, to continue past the inevitable end,