apeirophobe (apeirophobe) wrote,

to whom it made concern

I'm tired. How is it that I'm 23 and tired? I am, after all, the young, the strong, the peerless thrumming protoplasmic tremor of the universe. I am out flexing my youth for all the nations of the world to see, changing the planet, dismantling flaking, corrugated chunks of totalitarian establishments piece by jagged piece. I am everywhere, ensnaring the hearts of millions, who look on and say 'Look at him. He is uncanny. He is a testament. I will smile more and pat babies on the head and send 1,200 doves aloft because that is how much I am inspired right now. I am adrift, hurling my revelrie at overpopulated bus stops and sexually charged subway crowds, and the divine, beaming faces - they cannot be counted. I am breathing virility and life into these wastelands. I am ascending.

Except I'm not, am I? I'm in front of a computer, worrying about my aching neck. [This is not normal. It is worse than yesterday. I have torn/strained/destroyed/laughably mutilated some very important tendon/ligament/nerve bundle/spinal-muscle-thing and I will need painful, costly surgery. The surgery will fail, except in causing me spectacular agony and making things worse, where it will excel.] And I'm thinking about how to go about flexing my youth in ways which will inspire people, which will engender 'ooh's and 'ahh's and the removal of blouses and panties from delicate torsos and legs. And I'm thinking about how I can do this before the youth I feel growing fainter day by flourescently-lit day has evaporated.
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