If I could invest in myself like stocks – if my value was determined by how much I’ve accomplished – would I really want to buy more shares of myself? If I really thought about it… I think I’m going to have to think for a while. To rely on myself right now… That’s an expensive wager.
I feel like I should close the blinds on myself, just to symbolize this despair of mine. I want my environment to feel the same as I do. I feel toxic. I want to make everything around me feel as bad as I do. But I don’t do it. There’d be no return after that. If there’s no reminder of a time when things were better, then there will be nothing more to aim towards. There will be nowhere to step back. No more backup plan to fawn over.
I used to be better than this. Worked harder. Worked smarter, too. Had a lot of good things going on. Then, my ego took over. Wanted to brag. Wrong step. Never talk about your ambitions. Then you’ll feel like you’ve already completed it. You haven’t, though. You just believe that you do.
So you get complacent. You think you’re on top of the world, but you haven’t moved an inch from the bottom.
“So, big-shot – whatever you done now?” A jabbed finger.
You glance from the corner of your eyes. You start to speak, but they interrupt you.
“What were you at before – 40,000 words? Impressive.” A sneer. “How much now, big-shot?” There’s that word again. You clench your teeth, but they don’t react. “Tell me – how much? I mean, it’s been four months, hasn’t it?”
It feels hard to get anything out. ‘60,000.’ You want to say. Far less than before, but it’s something. Not that any of it is edited. Or coherent. Or anything worthy of being published. In fact, maybe you shouldn’t even bother. Maybe you should just go home right now, with your tail stuck between your legs.
“You were so proud of yourself half a year ago.” She shook her head. “You know, I was too. I thought you were gonna do something good, man. Be something great. But now…” She trailed off. That’s fine. You didn’t want her to continue.
You clear your throat, and take a few breaths. But still, the words catch in your throat. There isn’t enough force to push your feelings out. You wonder if you even have any feelings to express anymore. How did all of this happen? How did you get this complacent?
“You’re running out of time.” She says, turning away.
‘I already know that,’ you want to say. Do you, though? Weren’t you the one that forgot about it? Weren’t you the one that was “having fun,” while everyone else was working?
Aren’t you going to say anything? Aren’t you going to do anything? Are you going to let this all pass you by? Time’s not infinite, you know. You’re not a child anymore.