I just suddenly stopped reading.
Too much shit going on,
and leisure became an obligation,
a privilege I couldn’t afford.
Is this what growing up is?
Is that why dreams just—
out of nowhere—vanished?
A simple, trivial routine
we’re supposed to cherish and hold high
became something too much,
too expensive, too overwhelming,
too burdensome.
What happened?
And this is no simple rhetoric.
This is one question that must be answered—
or rather, remembered.
We all knew the answer once.
Don’t say it’s forgotten,
don’t lie that no one remembers,
or that only a select few can recall.
We.
All.
Do.
And it’s a bitter pill to swallow—
that none of us
can admit it.
We are all tragedies.
Our past selves cry in harmony
for the sorry state we’ve become.
And the worst part is,
only a few are apologetic.
And if the thought ever crosses our minds—
or in the minds of only a few—
yes,
we know exactly who we should apologize to.
Oh, Life—
how beautifully tragic you’ve unbecome.
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