This feeling of uselessness and empty happiness
has become something I depend on
to get through each day,
one by one flowing into years, then decades.
I can't remember if there was ever a time
when I didn't feel this way--
an alert, naive, too-trusting mindless bird
darting this way and that, searching and searching
for love, compassion, and acceptance;
anything that was warm.
Then gradually, alone in my room,
I begin to grow up,
my body stretching, my mind struggling
with all the new space that's appeared in my head,
while getting accustomed to bleakness, uncertainty,
and a sense of mourning for a better life story.
The expectations just get persistent,
while the people I care about begin to wear out,
and I continue to spend my days wandering around,
feeling faded and useless at the time of my prime.
I know how fortunate I am, how good my conditions are
compared to most people, the intentions are true and priceless
with love and sacrifice.
But sometimes, I can't help but wish
I could have been able to walk my own path from the start--
not having to focus on solely being successful,
but discovering what actually makes me happy,
and being able to make it my lifestyle.
At this point, wanting to be genuinely happy seems selfish,
ungrateful, and a crime
because my happiness isn't valuable or profitable,
or useful, or worth the sacrifices and investment
put into making the future a brighter place to envision.
I hope I begin to do better,
that I begin to put all my effort into improving myself
for the my own sake, and for the worn out people I care about.
I guess this might be my own quiet, selfless sacrifice,
lost among the prevailing expectations
that I do well regardless.
Something to acknowledge the feeling of heaviness, reluctance, bleakness, patheticness, and guilt that arises when I think about how I'm wasting my time and life away.
08/25/19