if i finish this, im gonna title it "everyday is a decade" and dedicate it to you

I cant write anymore. I don't know what to write, I have ideas, thoughts but they don't come out like they once did.And its reflecting my life. I was once ambitious, bight, eager and determined. I had a spark, a type of unknown motivation moving me. But that was before. Before. Before was a very long time ago, a time Ive forgotten. And I'm not sure if Ive chosen to forget or if it just happened that way; that the days have blurred into one long day that keeps repeating. And every day grows lonelier than the last because it feels as if no one else is repeating the day Ive been repeating. As if no one else is aware of what I'm aware of.

And so the idea of what is real and what is not begins to linger. Because this surreal feeling of life begs the question, and as one with an imaginative mind, I cant help but start to become delusional. I see what is not there, I see what is there and then I see what is beyond what is there. I play back and forth the things I could be doing, the conversations I could have and should have, what it is I want to do and/or say, and who I want to be five years from now or who I'd like to be. It keeps me occupied and entertained, but then I remember that I am doing this all to occupy myself from the lonely never-ending day. And so I must live and adapt to my surroundings of others and what it is I am told to be: a working class hero.