I am a failure.
A charlatan. A fraud.
I am full to bursting with false memories and self-deceptions.
Distractions. Deceits.
I have never achieved anything I truly wanted to, never made any noticeable difference, never contributed value to anything outside of myself, despite my many efforts.
All the fruits of my labor shrivel on the vine, drop rotten from the tree, desiccate in the sun, never to delight the senses of another.
I am a failure.
Dreams mock me with imaginings beyond my ability.
My aspirations stare down in judgement at my attempts, like some marble god constructed by the builders of civilization.
Pathetic. Weak. Incompetent. Ineffective.
What the hell am I doing with my life?
I am a failure.
At times, it seems my strivings will never cease.
My struggle is eternal. Yet it is also nonexistent.
No matter how I run or walk or crawl, the ground beneath me remains the same, and I look up to a familiar scene, if not a worse one.
The heights of my dreams appear even further away than when my journey began. They are like mountains receding into the distance, no matter how doggedly I plod onward.
I am a failure.
Perhaps this sense of striving is but another self-deception.
I am a creature of sloth and hubris.
Unimpressed by the idea of work, yet unable to commit to it.
The River Lethe is more enticing, a stream of comfort and stupor.
Flowing like sludge from the screen and the bed and the mind and the familiar.
I drink deep of it and feign surprise that I am drowsy.
I let its current take me where it will, yet find myself astounded when I wake to know not where I am.
This sloth will kill my soul more surely than the world's indifference will sap it from me.
I am a failure.
I cannot complete what I wish.
I cannot do anything right.
Often, I cannot force myself to do anything at all.
But I do not know what else to do except awaken from the hangover of Lethe-water, drag myself from its banks, and trudge toward the mountains again.
I am a failure.
Maybe one day I will drown in my sleep.
