It’s only the beginning of the year, yet I already feel behind— like I’m slacking, like I’m late to a race I never saw start.
Is it paranoia, the fear of not making it big this year, or something deeper clawing at my chest? Will I make a difference, or will this year remember me as a flop?
It’s only January 6, and every day I’m locked in soliloquy, arguing with myself about everything I don’t want to become.
Ideas crowd my mind— I’m not empty there, but my pockets echo with silence, dreams funded by hope alone.
Friends are already securing jobs, collecting wins, while I stand frozen between denial and confusion, blank on what to do and terrified of what not to do.
Maybe I’m just scared of falling. I’ve come too far to fail, haven’t I? Burned too many bridges to turn back now, yet the tunnel feels endless.
Will there be light at the end? I ask myself again and again, until I pause— breathe— and remind myself:
Relax. The year has just begun. There is still time to become something different.
Sigh.
Boyobed
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