Old

All I have are old photos. I am the player that wears his Letterman jacket long after the game ends. I was in college once; I studied abroad once. I lived and worked abroad! Once. I am 24, not old, no. Then why do I feel dusty, rusted somehow? My hinges creak when you take me out to play.

I visited my family not too long ago. Are you writing? Am I writing? No, I am not. You are so great, though! I loved that book you wrote; it was fantastic. I wrote that children’s book in 8th grade. I peaked in 8th grade.

Thanks to the internet, I see people I admire. Personality doppelgangers, my doubles from an alternative path. They said yes; I said no. They got it done; I watched another three or four episodes of Buffy. They are moving forward. If I just stuck to my Facebook, I wouldn’t have this particular complex. I can’t seem to stay in one place long enough to hang a mentor on the wall. However, that implies I am moving. Picture it like being on a merry-go-round, and I just keep jumping horses. New saddle, new view, same circle.

Numerous first posts by me fill the cracks of the internet. The angst, the spark of determination, the fear. If I die before I write another post, I want the definition of insanity written on my- Well, just paint it on my forehead before you toss me into the fire. It’s cheaper that way.

If you find that depressing, we do not have the same sense of humor. Post one of breaking the cycle. This wash out is tired of being washed up. I’m still young and tired of everyone thinking they are “an old soul”.

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