Thought I would feel some sense of accomplishment, or pending excitement, but I don’t feel anything. Every day just comes and goes; my life still feels like I’m somehow waiting for it to begin.
I suppose it’s the culmination of a life embracing mediocrity through easy pleasure instead of meaningful struggle. The fruits of my labor after twelve years of heavy drinking are apparent. No friends, no girl, at least some money in the bank, but a total lack of meaning in my work, overall sense of “I guess this is as good as it’ll get.”
I look at myself in the mirror and see a man barley comprehending that he is 33 already. A face weathered and aged beyond its years by excessive vice. A bald head, gaunt features, and a beard grown wild for no reason. I could say it’s an ode to Diogenes, and laugh, but know I spew nothing meaningful from these pursed lips.