7/17/23 in The Beginning

Almost 2 in the morning here, Eastern Standard Time. Sitting alone in my own personal haven, with a dim light and music fading in and out between my ears. (Bach sent us heaven through audible frequencies.)
A tiredness runs through my veins but not enough to drive me to the ultimate end.
A fading in an out of existence; consciousness.
I can conquer anything in the world, if I wasn’t a mortal man. Isn’t that the sadness of all of us? We strive to do as much as we can, but we end up never doing much anyways.
At best, a few flowers will grow where we once stood, atleast then we gave life to our sadness (death is always sad).

But who the hell am I kidding? I’m a twenty year old, nothing I say will ever mean much to anyone. A kid in the world’s eyes, who’s words will come off as cliché in a matter of years.

(Read too much Kerouac today, unintentionally rubbed off of me.)