I am telling you now, the only reason I still manage to get up in the morning is this: the world could end any minute.
So each day I go through the facade of going to work and pretending to still actively live; when in fact all I do is exist. I breathe in and out because my lungs compell me to do so. Without that urge, I doubt I would still keep on doing it. I breathe in and out because I am expected to.
I am expected to have the time of my life because I am still young. And I would be lying to myself when I say I am indeed having fun. All I do is manage and get by and I am proud of that. That is a craft I have carefully perfected.
Yet I still break.
There are times when I would stare at my computer, wondering what the hell I am doing with my life. Why am I not living?
It is during these moments that I would feel the last ounce of happiness leave my body. I’m still no one and I’m still nothing and my life ends each minute. Sucks.
So I try to elude the sickening feeling. I slowly slip back to my well-practiced composure. I slip my mask back on. Let me deal with you later, it says.
And I would wish for the gods to lash their fury on Earth. I silently wish for a wandering blackhole to pass by our sorry little planet and suck the life out of it, including mine.
Or maybe I could just be wishing for my own world to collapse. For my universe to explode so I could fade into nothingness.
Nothing sounds a lot better than this, anyway.
Oh, and look here comes another day I have to face.
A silent mantra before I get out of bed, “let the world end”.