There are mornings I wake up and feel like there is a huge bag of rocks on my chest. The nostalgia feels like a mountain resting on me, the weight of the years almost unbearable.
Sometimes I wonder, how the rest of humanity can go along with the flow of life. Not a rockstar, not an inventor, not what you had set out to be. Not the life you wanted. Not the love you sought. Solace from your religion is what people usually say. Is it really contentment with your lot of the draw, or is it a choice between acceptance and utter dark desolation of despair?
Even then you wake up, however lost the years, the friends, the choices have been; however bleak the universe is; despite your trunkful of coulda, woulda, shoulda, you still have woken up. What happens when you don't? I am not sure. Cross the bridge when you get there I think. But I have woken up, as you have. It would be a waste to not try again. It may all end up in failure, since there is no proof there may be a win today. But - what if?
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