Sahara Desert Tour

There is a certain poetry in watching someone die slowly on a hospital bed.

There are long silences and often you don’t know what you should say. Even if you have something to say, you don’t because it makes no difference. There are no important moments in watching people die on hospital beds. There are only long hours with people you know and love and who are slowly but surely slipping away through the cracks of what we call existence.

When you let go of somebody, regardless of the characteristics of the bed they are on, it’s kind of the same thing. There are no words you can say that will change the fact that they are leaving you to pursue something else: Something worthwhile; something different.

Lately, I have been wondering about change. I have been wondering about a lot of things, but particularly change. Like, should I change who I am? Am I just OK, and not outstanding? What is it I am doing wrong? This is me, five years ago. This is me today. This is my room, my clothes, the games I play, the movies I watch, the people I talk to. This is my window and my curtains, my walls and the things written on them. This is my school, my friends. This is my car.

Is it the same? Am I the same? Am I repeating the things I did when I was younger, for the sake of not changing? Have I not grown?

This is me when I broke up with my first girlfriend. This is me when I broke up with my second girlfriend. This is me when my third girlfriend broke up with me. This is me when my fourth girlfriend broke up with me. This is me when I graduated high school. This is me when I started college. This is me, young and old, depressive and happy, with my personal wall way above anyone’s head.

Heartbreak is just heartbreak just like my window is just a window; Just like my car is just a car, my guitar is a guitar, and my life is a life. It is not a different kind life. This is me breathing. This is me waking up, eating, dreaming and walking. This is me chasing. This is me crying. This is me laughing at stupid jokes and this is me learning to walk. This is me kneeling before the ever-increasing bar I have to jump over.

It is the curse of the addict to forever chase what he needs. Is the me of before addicted to the me now? Is the me of now addicted of the me after? How would I know?

How would I honestly know?


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