It has really been wonderful, but I’m ready to die. Not literally, sorry, trigger averted. I think that might sound ironic to my avid readers since all I write about is how terrible life is, the pains and everything. Good times aren’t worth being written about or captured. I forget anyhow. I just can’t get out of bed in the morning, afternoon, and for some reason, I’d rather binge-watch through the night than dream. I don’t want to dream anymore, therefore, figuratively if you’ll permit, I’m dead inside. I look forward to a good cry that might remind me that the are things beneath the surface. I’d welcome a shallow laugh. Something that kills inside, but comforts the impending seriousness I am consumed with. In the past, I’d have something to lean on. But these days, I’ve been whisked off to sea. What do you do in the middle of the ocean? Swim towards land or just make it easier rather than die from exhaustion. I have so little direction. This is what I’ve got left. This is what makes me want to swim. It makes me float when in reality I am drowning. I’m in a rush for no reason. Nothing or no one is waiting for one more page of chicken scratch. I get sick of my reminders of how awful I am at being reliable to myself. I doubt anyone would want to watch this disaster unfold. Too young to be excused. I think I believe that if I write so much, in my allotted amount of time, a ratio of days to words that is forever increasing, I will become immortal; I will dream forever in young boy’s and girl’s imaginations. Just don’t be surprised when I tell the world I told you so.
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Ben Bonkoske 