I cannot quite pinpoint
when it really started;
this inexorable
I think highly of myself.
I have loving parents.
I have a roof over my head
and the means
to buy the food I like.
I have friends
that remind me
of the things that make this life
worth living.
And yet,
I am still unsatisfied.
It is as if
I am constantly waiting
for when my life
is supposed to start.
Constantly waiting
for some magic to happen.
But it never does.
And if I am not careful,
I will watch all of my days
slip away
until I am nothing
but dust
with an unexplainable longing
in my heart.


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