jjay

Ive had this conversation with you before, it stung his ears and he thought for a second slowly exhaling knowing, being accustomed to the itch. Yeahdude I know, He half smiled. It was true. What could he do? He was wallowing in the mess of self-deprecation and doubt. It was hard to breath. He was suffocating from the inside. He felt defeated and lost. His mind was turned up like a speakerphone, loud and distorted, a muffled mess of ideas each one yelling over the other, fighting for attention. He needed to think but the more he thought the worse off he became. Ideas bombarded his mind on rapid fire and he felt sick. He lacked action, lots of ideas but no execution. This weakness reeked havoc on the inside; tearing apart any confidence he had mustered up in his 26 years cutting him at the knees. What good was a dreamer? This world was action, a constant carousel of change and renewal. He was a stagnant pool, rotting and evaporating with time. He wanted to change, needed to move but he was stuck haunted by his own ideals and failures. His mind was still cranked up and a picture of his childhood tuned in. He was riding his first bicycle peddling as hard as he could down an endless street. The world seemed big and excitement filled his stomach. He remembered how his mother had told him to stay close and how he had defied her and peddled out beyond the driveway past the neighbors and down the street. This was what he desired, to break free to change to move but all he did was talk and dream and sit. I mean Im tired and its late, it was almost four. Okay man, your right, his eyes were also getting heavy. Goodnight, He stumbled down the hall with the smell of whiskey on his lips into his room and shut the door. He stared at his bed, a void, kicked off his shoes and fell deep into the comfort. Tomorrow was a new day or at least thats what he hoped for.