Youth

I rushed out of the gate, expending all of my energy all at once, uncoordinatedly, stiffly as it were, without grace. I yearned for greatness, pushed myself as if impelled by some devil, grasping for pleasures but always coming up short, flailing madly in the dark, striving and yet not daring to hope, risking nothing except my own mind. I was lost, and I didn’t know it. Now, I find myself alone, my senses dimmed, with just a small flicker of hope—enough to get me out of bed in the morning and to go through the motions of the day. I am defeated, broken, and still lost. Only now, I take pride in the fact that I know that I am lost, as if that might mean I were not lost, at least entirely. It’s a fool’s pride, but it’s the only pride I have. My youth is gone, and with it, a litany of possibilities for majestic sensual pleasure. The fruit has fallen from the boughs and has already begun to rot. I taste the bitter juices because they are the only nourishment I can get.