I feel wasted. Not drunk-wasted. But functionally wasted. What I could do is being wasted. My dreams are being wasted. Everything I could’ve become has been wasted.
I feel wasted. And I have nothing left in me to carry on. I have nothing left in me to get me back on my two feet. Nothing to fill the gaps. Nothing to put off the burning flames.
I feel wasted. Wasted to the extent that I can almost feel myself vaguely decolourise. I can feel myself and not see myself. Wasted to the extent that I have blended within, when all my life I’ve been existing without.
I feel wasted. The tired kind of wasted. The poignant kind of wasted. The kind of wasted that no one can fix, not even yourself. The one that’s similar to waking up to an absolutely magnificent dream. The dreams that never come true. The dreams that only manipulate you and undermine you. I feel wasted.