Beneath the layers of camouflage and armor that I have equipped myself in lies something with the potential to change it all.

I must be defective. We’re supposed to wish for our success—to be happy when we achieve what we want to. But when the only thing driving you forward is your goal, what do you do when it’s over?

Maybe this is the reason why I slap every hand that ever tried to pull me up. Maybe this is why I can’t help wishing something good is over the moment it begins. I don’t know what I’d do with myself, without something urging me on, without anything to look forward to.

Some part of me doesn’t want to succeed. It wants to wallow in sadness and watch the world through ancient eyes. No, I’m not where I want to be yet. The want is the only reason why I get up in the morning.

And when that’s over, nothing will be left. Nothing but myself.