almost everything inspires me- well written film, emotionally moving music, friends with qualities and lives that bring me both bliss and bereavement, and nature's irreplaceable ethereality. only i am internally depleted and lack the talent, commitment, and capacity for vulnerability to make anything of that inspiration. i sleep past noon and waste away to mitski's last words of a shooting star as i accept that i'm surpassing the age young enough to be brilliant, that i subordinate myself to capital and social expectation, that i'll never create anything amazing, and that my bursting, crushing, scathing thoughts and notions will die with me, never having once seen the light of day. as i focus on my studies and plan for my career with my parents, i appear stoic, emotionless, and unaffected. but i am not unaffected. i am in a deep and melancholic mourning for enlightenment, for excellence, for actualization of self, for the life i'll never live. it's childish, it's selfish and immature, i know. but tell me, isn't it so, so human?
