An Existential Rant

Nothing more. Nothing less.

I don’t know my own worth, and it affects me on the daily. I wander around aimlessly. I seek validation but dismiss it when it finds me. I can’t compute. I don’t know how to accept the praise I so desperately desire. It feels foreign and dissatisfying.

I’m paralyzed by the unknown, yet I crave the thrill of adventure. I desire newness, both big and small, salivating over the intricacies of lives I’ve seen online. I ruminate over how to achieve this mentality that might sustain such a life. I don’t relate.

I’m exhausted by the internal dialogue, scripted by emotions I know better than to entertain. I feel desperate and alone. I feel insignificant. I feel deeply ashamed and helplessly unworthy.

I think to myself—how much longer? How much further? Who? What? When? Why must I be and not be? I compare myself to gorgeous silhouettes and the shadows cast by industry giants. In their footsteps, I’m trapped and bewildered.

When do I age out? When does the fog lift? When can I be happy? Satisfied? Free?

It can be nice in the dark. The silence is deafening, but it makes for thoughtful provocation. I haven’t spent much time listening, though. I feel distracted. So. Very. Distracted. Always distracted by this and that—him, her, them, those people over there.

I’m drowning in overstimulation. I don’t have the capacity today or tomorrow, and I’m not sure how to address it from down here.

I feel hollowed out, full only of creative excuses. I’m unable to give to myself these days. I feel forgettable. Invaluable.

I’m okay.