Every day, you live by dead lines, you don’t wait anymore for the next special moment, you just find ways to get by each day, day by day until they turn to weeks and weeks to months. You don’t anticipate days, you just want to beat deadlines and stay alive. You live for the traffic, you live for the rush hour, you die waiting in line for every single service you need, you die waiting for responses, you die waiting for the stoplight to switch, you die waiting in the bank, you die waiting inside a crowded bus nearly about to overheat, you fucking die waiting for every fucking thing up to the point where your life actually ends because everything’s fucked up anyway. Your life had become so boring, you had become so ordinary, you had forgotten everything, you look outside the window seat and you actually see faces of people who are just as bored, as tired, as fucking done as you. You see people chasing buses, kicking and pushing to get to the crowded buses. You see the dirt in the streets, the smoke rising to the lonely sky, you see your own sadness in the chaos that surrounds you. You ride a cab and watch the meter, you count every bite of food you shove into your mouth and how it drains the hard earned money in your pocket. You feel so so disappointed about the life you’ve led, because you can’t be something more. Because you can’t sleep at night not worrying about how you’ll get by tomorrow, how you’ll be able to make ends meet for yourself and the people who depends on you. You can’t tell if you’re still alive because you can’t even fucking feel it anymore. It’s a fucking tragedy to wake up each morning and face the exact same battle for the exact same crowded bus, and face the exact same loathe about life and everything.
You don’t remember days. And where was the beauty of the night, or the magic of midnight, the sense of adventure, the ride to sunrise, the surreal moments. Where were you when your own life was draining away. You were merely watching. You were looking outside from the window seat, and you did nothing but watch and stare. Feel sad and silently curse. You don’t even remember the day.
Days are awfully tiring. And had sleep become too precious, or you just got weaker. Had I not known, “The young must sleep with their eyes open.”