Its as if with each passing year we lose a part of our-self, on a path of being cloned into replicas of people we never wanted to become. Living in only a carcass of ‘normal’ as the present ceases to exist. We live, every day, hoping for the future or lingering in the past.

I have come to realize that I am every other person but, me. Masking myself with colors of the familiar. Scared to be anything but true. Sliding deep inside the throat of a bottomless pit of acceptance. Longing to be looked in the light only I see myself in. In only the ideal. Not because of sheer desire. But for the sake of rationality. Shedding as I age. But instead of becoming anew, I shed a piece of me that doesn’t fit into the riddle. Atrophying from the spirit that now only remains in my memory.

I could be wrong about this and probably am. It is possible that everyone feels differently as they grow. Embracing change like it was second nature while I battle my way through this process of transformation.

To me, it feels more like degeneration. A shift only seems fascinating in foresight. As the lines of distinction between me and the world get blurry.

Knowledge perhaps is everything until it is not. Maybe not knowing sometimes is better. Because as curiosity grows, so does the probability of what could be. Gluttonous as we are, we dig and dig for more. More approval. More success. More happiness. But never the mundane.

We are taught there’s always something to achieve. Some ladder to climb. Some standard to reach because mediocrity is never an option. Even when mediocre is what some of us will ever be. Like it was a curse of anonymity.

With time we come to terms with the fact that self-awareness isn’t as desirable as overachieving is. So we fight. Fight for the tried and true. Fight for the fickle. As the rules of the games change more often than the seasons.

I didn’t mean to sound so morose when I started writing but as I read through, it couldn’t be anything but. Some days simply are, and maybe it is okay to not surround ourselves with reassurance all the time. Because there’s beauty in even the bleakest of days. The beauty of its existence. And for all one knows, the mystery of the next one.