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Ides of Destiny

Artwork of a woman that seems to be depressed
Image: NY Times

I feel like I'm the victim of a cosmic practical joke that singles out some random soul to torment every now and then. I am traumatised by my own mind, fears and compulsions.

I feel like I am paralysed on the stairs of fate, immobilised by the prospect of my own success, too many ideas to move forward with any particular one.

I feel like I am the happiest and unluckiest man alive. Doomed in a vicious cycle of regret and baited hope. I am unable to get anything done.

I feel like I will wake up dead, not having lived, not having risked, not having lived. Such a pitiful existence, such wasted fodder.

I feel weak, exhausted at the very cusp of ignition, with promise just on the horizon. Second guessing is a fatal flaw, it obliterates destiny by the second. 

I feel like I know the way better than any and yet remain lost in a self imposed maze of hesitancy. Each second wasted ripples in lifetime consequences. What good is a blueprint, if it is cased in despair and despondency?

I feel like I'm sinking and yet buoyed. Every day is unfulfilled, every moment torture. No one to heap the blame on.

I feel like I remember the future but always forget to write. Time claws away at the walls of my soul, inflicting deep scars of regret. How much longer can chaos subsist? Possibility fades into nothingness.  

I feel sick, my malady is trepidation. A seemingly inherent inability to take one step, to decide. Tell me who fears their  own success, who undermines their own progress, who defeats their own purpose?

I feel lost. How many chances can the cosmos grant one wayfarer? How much regret can fill up a bucket?

I feel nothing. I feel everything.


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