/lit/ - Literature

Ok anons, I'm in my room right and the shadows are growing longer now.
The grays within them getting deeper and darker with each passing minute. The late afternoon is turning into the evening.

Yet here I sit.

The passage of time calls most to action. Many spring to their feet as time slips away, not wanting to waste what little is left.

Not me.

I linger.

For I've seen what lies on the other side of tonight. It is another day, void of purpose, same as this one. Followed by another night in this bed, alone. Another dream, where she's still with me. A dream where I did something different. Anything. Even a dream where we still talk. Where I don't have to analyze every unread message. Where there are no weeks of unbearable silence. Where I can count the number of freckles on her face, instead of forgetting more what she looks like.

It's funny just how much difference hope makes. Our present reality can be completely identical one week to the next, same job, same house, same friends, same schedule...but take away hope, and suddenly everything is different.
When that thing which gave us purpose and cause to keep pushing forward is taken away, everything becomes bleak.

You look at yourself and you say:

"Why was I doing all this in the first place? What am I doing here?"

You suddenly notice all the cracks in the surface of your life that had been there all along. You'd just been too distracted by your hope to care before.
You didn't want to see.

Hope is the sedative that gets us through the pain of the mundane.
Hope is the cheese at the end of the rats maze. But what happens when your hope finally fades away?

What happens to anyone when their drug high ends?

They crash.

Boom

Anger. Frustration. Sadness. Depression. Anxiety. Fear.

You have all these emotions begin to overwhelm you. Some of them had been there all along, but had become so muted and dulled by your hope, you forgot they existed.

Now you need a new coping mechanism.

So you start going to the gym everyday. Running on the treadmill until you're light headed. But you can't stop now.
More.
More.
More.
Give me purpose. Give me validation. Whatwas my hope is gone, so now this post-workout selfie better get 600 likes or I'm going to kill myself.

Compliment me.
Acknowledge me.
Tell me I matter.
Tell me I've added up to something worthwhile. At least tell me my physical body looks good, this sack of blood and flesh - this cage of meat and bones I live in... tell me it meets your standard of beauty. Then I'll feel better. Then I'll know why I'm living this life.

Maybe you're too much of a fat fuck American for that to be your coping mechanism. You're too busy sucking down bacon cheeseburgers and watching reality TV to get your itch scratched that way.