I have expectations.

We all do.

I don’t meet my expectations.

We can’t always.

But I haven’t met a single expectation of mine for the last 5 years.

I could blame this behavior on a certain someone, 5 years ago.

A person I cherished, appreciated, and once loved.

I may still love that person, but in a new context – different.

But what good does that do for me?

‘It’s their fault.’

‘She’s the problem.’

‘He got me into this mess.’

Does that save me?

Help me?

Better me?

No.

No.

No.

I’m looking at my problem, and it’s just there, existing.

Stagnant, immobile, existing.

Sometimes I wonder, ‘Why am I betraying myself?‘ and never would I have an answer.

Was the thrill of disobeying that great?

Were the communities of code that engrossing?

Is the pleasure of numerical values that exciting?

I… don’t know.

Why.

Why.

Why.

Was the life of a student too stale?

Did I not find comfort in reaching expectations?

Why.

Was the digital world more real?

Was I shipping myself out, or was I collecting someone else?

I am bored.

At one point, I’ll no longer find the game enjoyable.

At one point, I’ll no longer find this story heart-wrenching.

At one point, I’ll not longer want to go outside.

At one point, I’ll stop loving.

At one point, this has to stop.

I believed the last line. I believed that one day, it will stop.

How, I’m not sure.

But deep within my thoughts, I’m certain I wanted someone else to help. I wanted for there to be a reason for me to end this cycle.

It could be love.

It could be a horribly cliche death.

It could be an illness.

It could be a threat.

Whatever it is, I wanted it to come to me.

When I was little, there was one time where I was walking home with my mother, and we passed by a yard sale. It was situated half a block away from our apartment, so there was no rush. I spotted a puzzle book, a book that contained many puzzles to solve. Even before flipping through it, I knew I wanted it.

I wanted it badly.

I didn’t tell my mother that I wanted the book, but I just said ‘I like something here‘. That was my subtle way of saying I want something‘. My mother would then tell me that she didn’t bring any money, and we would go home to get some.

I walked back home, excited for the a puzzle book.

I arrived back at the yard sale, a simple 5 minutes later.

As hard as I tried, I could not find that one puzzle book. One of the attendants told me that they just sold it to a little boy just now.

My mother asked for what the price of the book was.

$1.50.

My mother than said she had $1.50 when we first came by, but thought it wouldn’t be enough for what I wanted.

I cried.

It was an extremely childish thing, but I cried.

Over a few pieces of bound paper.

That night, my grandfather would learn of this and tell me ‘There are somethings that are just not suppose to be. You owning that book was one of those.”

I took that.

I took that, creating a foundation for myself based off the idea that ‘somethings just happen’.

I think that is why I always wished a cure would just come to me. It would just… happen.

But I know better.

Things don’t appear from nothing.

It doesn’t appear in front of you.

But you appear in front of it.

It is easy to say, easier to plan, but difficult to do.

I try, to make myself find it.

Work hard for something that I have wanted for a long, long time.

It would work out, for a few days.

Then it would die out – the flames cooled by the rain.

The flames would burn again, only to be taunted by torrential downpour.

Over

and

over.

Then I decide the reason for the continuous failures is because a solution has not yet appeared.

And then I stop.

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