Every day the same as the last. Always running, never moving.

I tie my shoes.

I’m not sure when it started, and I worry that it might never end. Even the illusion of novelty feels overused now; every day boasts “the new thing”, “the life changer”, “what you have been missing all this time”, and I feel ashamed from my own gulability. An endless stream of colors and words, trinkets and gimmicks, trends and in the end, distilled into a single, silent, scream:

I put on my coat.

Whether directed to the subject or object is of little consequence. Grant every vice and every lust, gorged on attraction and allure, yet the fattened hand stretches out for more. Rage against consumerism, tear down the source of abundance to free those trapped by greed, only to become ensnared yourself. Turn your view inward to better yourself and live your best life, and see yourself either succumb to the best of your vices or become lost in the sea of self-defined purposelessness. Embrace the nihilism, tell yourself that nothing matters, and see where you’ve ended up. Is that truly what you think is “enough”? No matter the path, the journey ends the same, not enough.

I grab my umbrella.

What is the meaning of all this? How can we create our own meaning when we didn’t even create our selves? Our parents? Sure, they decided to bring a person into this world, but they weren’t the ones to decide who that person would be. Molded and guided, yes, but guidence doesn’t mean determineance of you are supposed to be. Who am I? What is my purpose? Why am I even here? This can’t be the end, all there is. Mountain-climbers in a universe of valleys.

I open my door. and start another day.