People change. They grow. Move apart. Learn from experiences, mistakes. Sometimes they break.

Sometimes they wonder if anything ever really heals, or if its just a continuation down a big spiral into nothing.

Sometimes it seems like everything (life?) only really comes as a trickle. Sands falling slowly from a timer counting down to.. What? The next adventure?

And we wait; wait for the last grain to fall. We sit and watch the small, seemingly pathetic sandpile and wonder what any of it even means. Why are we even here? What stupid, inane purpose am I supposed to be fulfilling before the sand runs out?

Will we ever even really know? Expectations are held of us, but what’s even the point? Will any of it even make you happy? That college degree with all it’s recumbent debt.. will that even guarantee you get a good paying job? And if so, will that finally be some kind of ledge achieved?

You can sit there from your lofty perch and scream into the wind “I’m here! I’ve made it!”, feeling some kind of elation before realizing that you’re not really any happier than before, when you were jobless and broke. Or struggling through college.

Are you happier now, with your house (mortgage), your 2.5 kids, and the dog, Rex? Or is everything /still/ really all pointless?

Everyone I know seems so concerned with getting a “good” job. Because, apparently, making mid-six figures will solve all my problems.

Except that I know something they apparently don’t; it wont solve all my problems. Sorry, guys, but the rabbit hole goes far, far deeper. If you were wondering why I’m still in Hawaii, this is why. I /don’t/ know what the fuck I want to do, exactly.

And I don’t know, because I have no clue what the point of any of it would even be.

Maybe if I had any idea of who I even am anymore. Maybe if this year had gone differently. Or the year before. Or the year before that. Maybe if it didn’t feel like the glue had such a tenuous hold on the cracks after being shattered.

Sometimes I’m not even sure what’s original and what’s the patches, struggling valiantly to cover the hole left after a break and the pieces are just /gone/. Lost. Some.. piece.. of who you were, broken off and disappearing like spare change in the wash.

Maybe it’ll turn up someday. Like it was just fucking hiding under the couch.