Intense Trauma

Am I even alive? I feel like I’m floating through the air. I can’t write because my life was not led through trepidation. I didn’t abuse drugs, I never drank like a fish, I never went on the prowl for the delicious flesh of women. My past isn’t broken or cracked. I can’t write because in all honesty I’m not broken. If I was broken then I could write. All the good authors had something or someone tear them down. They built themselves back up with words when they couldn’t break any more. I’ll never be a famous author because I was never damaged enough as a kid. The world is full of danger, ill intent, and darkness. I’ve never been able to experience the revitalizing waves of being smashed. Instead I’m overly ordinary. Nothing about me is special, I’m just like everyone else. Why do I pursue things I can’t achieve? Hopeless fantasies of worlds I should have led. Until then I’m nothing. I’m no one. I’ve never been anybody to anyone. Things come and go like lightning. In the end it never even matters. I can’t achieve greatness until I’ve been destroyed.

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