Existential Crisis

What I’ve lacked most is conviction.
Or inspiration.
I’m not sure, yet I use the superlative.
I say most, best,
When I really mean more than, better than.
I really have too little to go by.

I don’t understand why I have always been in such a hurry to grow up, and at the same time had nothing particular to look forward to when I finally do.

Recently someone told me, being a failed author in today’s world is one of the biggest stereotypes.
Alcohol and failed manuscripts, I want to court that failure.
A part of me wants to be nothing.

Another part wants to rave all night with absinthe in my pocket screaming at the skies in a red convertible. 
I want my life to be music.
It’s what I’ve always wanted.

I look at people around me, and there is something in their life- in their drive for life that appalls me.
At the same time, I can’t help but envious of kids with rich parents who have it so easy.

I don’t want to be rich.
I just want to earn enough to make my life music.
That shouldn’t be impossible in my utopian universe,
But reality says hotel prices don’t come down if you are living your dream.

I’ve been brought up in comfort, and it seems ridiculous that I am planning my life in a way that will ensure I never experience that comfort again.
What will I do, dip into my parents’ pension funds?

Getting run over by a car seems easier than realising dreams.
Even the simplest dream seems impossible to fulfil.
I look at my parents with amazement, with awe because they made it.
Through this insane rat race I so badly want to avoid, they made it.

I don’t want to compete, I don’t want to win, I just want to live.

Screw survival of the fittest.
It’s a planet not bloody Noah’s Ark.
Take your money, take your fame, give me my life back.

Let me live, let me see the world youre too busy to see.
Let me love the men you could have been.
Let me find the last cowboys.

Where do I find poetry,
Rhymes don’t live in dollars and credit cards.

Where do I find manna,
Mc Donalds doesn’t exactly fit the bill.

I am lost and forever want to be.

If I have to fight the 9 to 5 battle,
Join the concrete jungle of lost souls,
I’d much rather get run over by the red convertible,
While someone living my dream sips absinthe and forgets,
And this story ends before it could begin.


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