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Scout on Summer Boredom/ Got It All

  

I tell myself that it’s just one of those nights. When every letter on the page was a waste of space, when the paper was better off empty than when I decided to infect it with my useless thoughts. The tangents run on their own, taking up space but never solidifying into anything of value. Every step I take shakes the ground with the weight of my insignificance. How heavy it must be to be so light, so shallow, so soulless. I go on, I became so uninhabited that gravity itself cannot ground me on this Earth. I look up at the sky and I see myself, my thoughts, every good and bad deed I have ever done disappearing above me, looking for the soul they belong to. I scream at them, at the fruit of my existence, at my anxieties, but to my voice they are deaf. I stare into the eyes of my love, but to my body they are blind. I empty my cards to try to buy an ounce of importance, but to my contribution they are ignorant. I shove my achievements in their face, knowing none of them matter to them the same way they never mattered to me. At the end of each line, I write I become angry that it must end, that anything can end so easily. That I could die as easily as each thought can float away. At the end of the night, I stay awake lest I miss a second of my life, lest I don’t wake up tomorrow, lest I miss the chance to change. But the next morning I live my life the same, letting the mornings ruin the nights and the nights seep into the mornings. They say insanity is doing the same thing twice and expecting the same result, but I am beyond insanity. I am too aware to be insane, too active to be depressed, too gone to know what’s wrong. I smile at mirrors, at faces, at the ground, at the sky, because I am grateful for all of it, but I don’t belong to any of it. I belong to the world in the vaguest sense, to kindness, to the uniqueness of it, but never any specific part or person. I desire nothing and no one, and they reciprocate the feeling. I let everything flow beyond me like water at my feet; a simple annoyance it all is, as is my existence. Not worth ending but nothing special to revel in; a simple discomfort. The night is still long, and only getting longer as each regret stretches itself to show the weight of my mistakes. Like everything else, this ramble must come to an end. Now that I reached it, I wish this page was blank.

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