My life is filled with busy nothings. I fill my days with the same monotony that permeates throughout the rest of my life, hoping for some excitements, some alterations to the status quo, but all for naught.

My dreams are always dashed. My hopes always falter. How can I strive for and to be something better when I am rebutted at every turn?

Perhaps that is why I write. I hope to use words to fashion something out of my meaningless life, hoping to infuse them with a purpose and give the impression that my life does, in fact, have meaning. I take small things and exaggerate. I make them out of proportion and use literary license to give them life and humor. I’m not like that in real life. I can’t use words to create something new and exciting from the broken pieces of my existence.

I’m tired of failing.