I can’t remember when things first got so hard.

When “living” became less obvious and more inhibiting, the test before the real adventure. Life gets in the way.

The constant headache, the weariness, the all-too-familiar burn out. I’m so sick of being almost there. Almost perfect. Almost falling apart. What’s the difference?

Go ahead, take some aspirin for the pain. It won’t help. Nothing will help. On a daily basis, I’m ripped to shreds and pieced back together again, a little worse for the wear, a little more broken.

And I’m starting to think that it’s easier to just not care. Because when you don’t care, you don’t have to worry. You don’t have to hold yourself to a higher standard. Caring is believing that there is, indeed, something better.

What if there isn’t? What if this is it, and we’re all just fools for living our lives like this, waiting for the greener grass on the other side?

Stop pretending. The only meaning to life is the one you convince yourself of.