It's getting harder to keep going. I have a dull headache and my body hurts. It just hasn't felt right in some time. The sun shines, but my disposition is as cheery as a December day in Cardiff. 'We go through cycles with you,' my boss said. Damn right, you do. Every year I'm reminded how devalued I am as a human being by my work, by this country's politics, and by the people. I thought that by now, I'd have figured out the thing that makes me tick. Just that something that I'd look forward to doing every single day. Something that makes a difference in someone's life. A purpose. But here I am, at 28, stuck doing just another job that nobody gives a shit about. I may have wasted the best years of my life for what? I know I have a long time to go, but maybe I don't. Maybe tomorrow I'm going to get run over by a cyclist and I'd go flying in front of a bus, never to wake from a coma that declares me brain dead. But even that would be better than this meaningless existence, because they'll take my organs one by one and give them to people who need them and are fighting to live, unlike me. There's nothing inside me that burns anymore. There's no idealism, there's no optimism, nobody to love me and keep me going. We live in a world where a six pack or appearances are more important for attraction than how a person treats you or makes you feel, and I'm guilt of contributing to that too. How many times have I not given perfectly good men chances to show me that they could treat me well and a chance to love me right? My own insecurities flare up HARD too. Who's going to love the fat on my bones, distributed across my body in a non aesthetic way. Who will love me? I don't even love me enough. Therein lies the problem.
