You are not Special
Leaving the television screen after a four-hour affair, my brain liquidates to the soup that my mother so vigorously warned me about as a child. Walking up the steps to my room, it’s 1:00 am, I feel hollow. Emptied by the ladle of death, I’m left with a gaping hole in my chest. I write this now in search of an answer to a simple question, what is it that I feel right now? What conjures this feeling of self-disgust? It’s a feeling that I have wasted time. Where subtle anxiety to do something brews yet a knowing that I must instead sleep so that I can do later.