The Sense of Being Paralyzed

1 minute read   ·   15/ Life as Fiction
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Today is my twenty-second birthday.

It feels all too unnecessary.

Tell me: How complicated is life? How difficult is it to piece together your dreams?

How amazing is it to wake up every morning and hope for it to end already? It baffles me how people plan three months in advance. My life moves minute-to-minute, and even then I have troubles with catching up.

After I moved to New York, I was shook up quite a bit to find out that airline tickets, if bought a few days before the flight, could exceed four digits quite easily. You had to reserve your seat at least three weeks in advance for a decent price. I thought, “How ridiculous is this? How do people know what paths their lives will take in the next month?”

The concepts of having nine-to-five jobs, of retirement plans and HMOs, they’re all so against the simple, honest and genuine concept of living. How does one survive by being a two-dimensional cut-up of one’s former self?

She whispered in my ear, “I have to go.”

My heart emptied out, and I got a glimpse of my epitaph: The punch is the pull.