Not ready.

"If we were not all so interested in ourselves, life would be so uninteresting that none of us would be able to endure it."

- Arthur Schopenhauer 

I run this weird borderline between being totally obsessed with myself and totally disgusted with myself most days.

It's an oddly irreverent feeling.

I often internalize and think, then there are other times that words exit my mouth before I've had a chance to ponder them at all.

I've felt old lately. Muted. Like a faded watercolor painting. I wonder if this is what getting older feels like, putting away childish things and assuming more mature responsibilities. I worry that I'm going to die like this, never fully touching anything, never rolling it over in my hands and feeling the textures and patterns and life.

I thought I knew what I wanted. I thought I had it all together. Child - check. Family - check. Pets - check. School - check. 

Turns out I don't even know myself well enough to know how unhappy I've become with the status quo, with the normalcy that life often inflicts upon us while it's telling us that this is the way it should be.

I'm not ready for this to be my life. Staying in Friday nights. Not driving to another state in the middle of the night because people just don't do that. Not writing at 5 in the morning because I can't sleep.

I'm not ready for this mediocrity.