Tuesday, March 10, 2015

When Will It Be Real

He asked her...

How are you?

I'm fantastic!

Right then, in that moment, I hated her. This petite woman and her blonde hair and her flashy smile. I wanted to punch her in the face.

It goes along with that whole -I'm up early so you're going to get the fuck out of bed too-thing. That is a thing, right? Maybe only in my world.

How can you be so fantastic as I sit here, dead on the inside. Rotting. I'm not fantastic. Not anywhere close. So you can't be either.

I'm not looking for a parade to hang around. Not for pity. I just hate all the happy shit, the real happy shit, when I'm used to the whole facade of appearing happy.

I've come to the realization that I will never find true happiness. I've held it in my hands a few times. Just long enough to examine it, but the rightful owner always snatches it back--just outside of my reach.

Will there ever be a perfect job? One I don't dread driving back to tomorrow?

Will there ever be a perfect home in the perfect town?

Can I continue making my family happy? Will my kids ever come back to me as grown men to reminisce what stood out to them? Do they even have such memories?

It's the answers to the unknown I crave so much. My mind never stops churning out thoughts or questions like these. 


My mind is never at rest. 

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