Do You Get What I'm Trying to Say?

 I tried scrolling through my dark history and scraping it out of existence but with this new layout, it's too much work. I can only stand being reminded of what I used to be for no more than 5 seconds. It's embarrassing. I'M EMBARASSING. At 23, I think I will have to accept that I am this delusional bastard who refuses to get a grip, despite having said that I will, eventually. But that time hasn't come, and I doubt it ever will. Once pathetic, always pathetic. Or something like that. 

I came across some old poetry. "Poetry". All this while, I'm amazed that I managed to click on the bright orange publish button and let these words float somewhere in the dense cloud we call the internet. It is likely no one has found them, and I hope nobody has. Actually, I think that it's more probable for someone to find a message stuffed into a bottle and thrown into the sea, than this blog. Like the test papers we keep under piles of old reference books, this blog is hard to reach, though in the first place it doesn't stir anyone's interest enough for them to even want to take a peek. 

As long as I'm happy, it doesn't matter, right? Going nowhere is absolutely fine. I like it better when I see the sights of rice fields and old houses pass by anyway, because then I wouldn't have to do anything, but watch. Then I reach my destination and I'd have to move, think of something to do, or look busy just to fit in when really, I just want to be leaning against a wall, staring blankly at the changing destination signs, my gaze following the stream of commuters that flow past the gates after each arrival. 

Hello, Pulis? 

I swear I'm not a stalker. 

Where do you suppose I'll be once I'm 30? Time seems to move faster, but our lives are somehow delayed. Prolonged studies, listless job hunts, late marriage, and an ageing population of single, melancholy sacks of meat past their sell-by date. If I die at 50, which I hope I do, I wouldn't need to worry about post-retirement since I'll be long dead before I can retire. Realistically speaking however, I will likely live past the age of 65 unless some (un)fortunate accident were to happen. That would be the biggest surprise I'd ever receive. 

There's no theme to any of this which makes it hard to end. Don't just say that I can cut it off with a "goodbye" or "goodnight" because it wouldn't feel right. Think about all the relationships that you've had, how did they end? Now think about all the people who you've made a connection with but decided that you'd be better off never seeing each other again, how did you cut them off? I'm thinking too much? Yes, I am, and that is why I can't find the proper goodbye. I don't want this to end, I don't want anything to end, but all things must come to an end. Goodnight.