30

What was I supposed to get done by now and did I achieve any of it?

I don’t know and: probably not.

And that’s okay.

Because, at the end: I’m still here.

And let’s be honest, that’s more than I thought possible.

I’ve lived a thousand exciting lives in my head. It’s the one outside, though, that I usually dread.

Turmoil, trouble, trepidations. Why bother, or: how do I find the strength to go on?

Study, muddy waters, pills, and lots of sleep. Degree here, degree there, while running a temperature.

Emptiness – bring on more vices just to fill the room.

I clearly feel the pain exuding from my body and yet I mostly feel numb.

The hum-drum of life due to a drum no longer played – hand messed up. I: dismayed.

Fill it to the brim – be it whisky, wine or gin.

Laughter too, but mostly with a broken heart.

Then triumph over it all – but you get smacked in the face again and again: too smug, you know? Just too damn smug.

Reflected light in a pool of blood on a cold street corner, it’s the dead of night.

And yet: “there’s light”, I hear you whisper with your last breath, “there is light!”

Fragile, yes, but still intact. In fact, complete albeit inapt.

Rainbows elicit a smile. Soon after, though, new tears are shed.

You’ve had it with your head. You’ve had it in your head. All this time. Won’t stop. Can’t stop. Drains you. Entertains you. Glorious mess.

It gets better. But then it gets worse again. Better. Worse. Better? Now it won’t.

So you dance. Because what else could you do?

When it isn’t black, it’s blue. Just. So. Damn. Blue.

Barefoot in the snow, arms engulfed by flames. Still nothing? Yup. Just claims, golden claims.

That this helps, that helps, anyway, you should feel better already. So why don’t you?

Blame keeps you tame. Also drives you insane.

As if you didn’t already hate yourself enough.

As if you didn’t already turn round and round, upside down, left to right, as if chasing yourself…

Crown on the head – awe and jealousy, when seen from outside. Nobody can see the thorns burrowing into my head, cause there’s so little lifeblood left.

Pricking, prodding – why this? why that?

It’s only one life, only so many hours, only so many years. But oh how infite the amount of fears.

What I have missed out on – so much. What I have done – so little. And all the wrong things. No! There were moments of gold. Rare and sad of their own accord, so ephemeral you tasted their decay at birth.

And still it goes on. And it’s hard. And it hurts.

And yet it is worth it – for all those who love you.

Love you anyway. Love you because.

Just love you and want: more years, some tears, but more laughter still.

And you can’t hold still. Must move, even if it’s against your will.

For 30 is nothing, though it weighs quite a lot.

Want to be there at 60? I’ll try to save you a spot.

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