If this is success—or even a small taste of it—then why am I not happy?
It’s three in the morning and I need to shout into a void.
I know real life is upon us once again when I start waking up in the middle of the night.
It’s me and the silence again tonight.
There used to be a time when this silence meant the gaping void between pain and peace. Chaos, confusion, and clarity. Powerful bastards doing a number on the soul, striking and stabbing with shanks that made each breath sharp and cold.
Now there’s just silence. I’m not sure if this is the peace I so crave in the throes of deadlines and pressure and the dirty cacophony of city life. I’m not even sure I could call it longing. It just is.
For the life of me, I still can’t tell if I need it, or if I should just let it slip.
Because Christmas as a functioning adult just hasn’t felt the same. (Yet.)
Just so we can live the lives we want to live in a world that doesn’t always smile; just so we can sit quietly, when we want to, in the afternoon breeze of autumn (or what passes for it); just so we can breathe in an age where we are merely afforded gasps; just so we can dance when the fire has stoked a frenzy.