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Interesting. I find a Web site that supports my writing, the first one I have ever encountered. Maybe it will be an experience … maybe another waste of time. That’s how it is usually. I waste my life away and by the end of the day, I question myself. Is this even worth it? I’m never sure.

I am sure, however, that I will awake tomorrow with the same problems and questions as today. Unfortunately, since the same problems consume me, the same answers will prevail. Again, I waste time and thoughts on things that do not matter and people who barely know who I am. I have no idea what I’m doing with my life. And I’ll wake up tomorrow and pretend like I have better things to worry about. Deep down though, I know I don’t. I’m just too afraid to admit it.

I feel like a kid—if you break something, just sweep it under the carpet and no one will know. But as we grow, we realize what will really happen. The glass might be hidden for a while, maybe a very long time, so long even the breaker of the glass forgets about it. But eventually the carpet will wear thin, and an unsuspecting victim will walk across it at the wrong place at the wrong time. And the glass, sharp and jagged as if it was just waiting for its turn, will get stepped on. Then pain and regret will come into play. A mistake that cannot be changed. But until it happens, why think about it? There’s always that chance it won’t.

But I know better now. And I can’t help the fact I have this painful ache when I look at that carpet. Because I know what’s underneath the surface, and I’m just hoping if the glass is stepped on, that I’m the only one with a cut foot. But why think about it? There’s nothing I can do about it today. I don’t feel much like cleaning anyway.

Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow. No, I won’t.


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