My concentration swirls into the flow of my coffee, as it spins around the mug and I try to find some semblance of tranquility. Everything is busy, I’m busy, my friends are busy, the life I want requires me to be busy.

I’m tired, incredibly tired, I don’t believe I’ve felt well rested since the day I turned eighteen and the land that formed my world fell from under my feet and I’ve been struggling to keep my head above water ever since.

Is this what life is now?
Is this what the next however many years still remain to me will consist of?
Constant worry, constant want?
Constantly wishing for the freedom I didn’t know I had in childhoods liberation?

I look down at my coffee, now half drunk and wonder which side of that half I sit on. How far is too late? How long can I truly skirt on the edge of life before I realise what it is I want? How long before I’m written off by my family and friends, before I live the rest of my life medicated to deal with existence.

This is all I do mostly. Ask questions I’m either too scared to answer or too lazy to make irrelevant.
I find it hard to believe this is normal. When I talk to friends and strangers about the existential dread and constant worry that accompanies my days, only to be greeted with nodes of approval and an assurance they feel the same.
Does it make me feel less alone?
Do I feel less ****** up for knowing or does it just scare me more that I live in such a damaged broken world.

My coffee cup sits empty, as I scoop out another spoon full and turn on the kettle again.
Debating whether I should get drunk or high tonight.
There are worse things to be addicted to, I say.