so i’m a sad thirty year old now, apparently

the stars are out. and i should be asleep. like every single part of my body is telling me. and i can’t handle this, and yet somehow… i can’t stop doing it. because at least there’s one thing i’m good at, despite everything.  

and there’s something so addicting, about whole worlds sprouting out from my fingers. and maybe if my life in the real world is over, i can just… escape. forever. 

and i should be proud. but i don’t know how to be. and all accomplishment brings me these days is this weird moment of empty. and i’ve been working on this for so fucking long, that i’m starting to hate it, honestly. and doing what i love shouldn’t exhaust me.

but at this point i’m just… i’m too tired to care anymore. so whatever. just let it be. let the jewels of my mind drift down to the ocean floor. let the dust settle on the pages.

i don’t want to do this anymore.


I have this long running joke with my friends, about how lockdown is slowly turning me into a sad thirty year old, hence the title of this poem. Basically without having friends or whatever my life has been reduced pretty much work and only work, as I’ve probably mentioned before. Like, when I wake up, I don’t think “oh, I’m going to do this fun thing with my friends!”or whatever (because there is no fun thing I’m doing with my friends). I think “what do I have to do today?” And I do it, with more like these little quick intermissions for my life to happen–FaceTime calls and watching movies and reading books and stuff. I guess I’ve just been raised with this really toxic, horrible culture, that work is everything, work is your worth as a person, and you’re never going to be able to do the things you love, no matter how hard you work–because most of success is just having a rich family with connections mixed with random chance. And although I wish I didn’t believe that… I don’t know, I guess I still can’t help but wonder sometimes.

And these days, it just feels like work is… kind of consuming me, I guess. Ever so slowly. Like, I don’t know what my life is without it–and I don’t want to. Because I know I can do this, and do it pretty okay, considering my age. But I don’t feel the same way… about being a person. Honestly, I don’t have a clue how to do that. So instead, I just bury myself in deadlines and projects and responsibilities, and… I stay there. Because it’s easier like that.

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