Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead

I’ve got it all figured out. We’re a parasite. Other animals on this planet coexist with nature. We don’t; we’re like scabies. Tiny mites covering the outer layer of earth, burrowing into it, infecting it. We are like tapeworm

I felt like I was never in the moment I was in. I was always looking back, or
worried about the future

I exchange a pitying look with my reflection to communicate with myself that I feel sorry for me.

I have to make money to pay my rent, and buy food to sustain my existence, because that is the purpose of my life.

I remember being sixteen and feeling eleven. I remember thinking, how could I be a teenager? I remember finishing high school and thinking, am I grown now? Is this what it feels like? I feel the same as I did before.

Impostor syndrome is a psychological pattern in which individuals doubt themselves and have a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a fraud.

. I don’t really owe anyone anything. I am an animal, brought into existence without my consent, left scrounging to get by. I have my own problems.

I haven’t heard from you in ages!

That is because she is dead.

How are you?

Dead.

What’s new?

Nothing is new with Grace, or ever will be again.

I haven’t heard from you in ages!

That is because she is dead.

How are you?

Dead.

What’s new?

Nothing is new with Grace, or ever will be again.

“Thank you,” I say to the cashier as I leave the store poorer.
I wish that I hadn’t lost my job at the bookstore. I knew that if I did not go to work I would be fired, but I still didn’t go. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been exhausted. I don’t have the motivation to wake up in the morning, let alone the drive to go to a bookstore and interact with people.