Sitting idle in what's meant to be my new home for the next three years, there's so much I could be doing right now to brighten my future. And my present, really. But for some reason, the interest for such, and intrigue that once used to fill my heart has evaded me. I used to be the stereotypical young innocent hero enchanted by his beau, and now I've become the drunken, forlorn leftover excuse for a person that he turns into once she's married to someone else. 

Am I feeling sorry for myself? I don't notice anymore when that happens. 

I know the exact steps I can take to make things better, to create a new outlook for myself on this brand new life, but I absolutely lack the motivation it takes to move forward and make them happen. Stuck in the inertia of heaven-knows-what, physically exhausted from the work that knows no bounds, perpetually leading myself in circles thinking of the solution (the way out) from this mess, always landing back in the same situation, mentally tired by my own constant accept of defeat without a proper trial at success; I wonder when things will change. 

Once, writing used to be the perfect outlet for me. Now that I've made it my strength, it doesn't feel so relaxing anymore; I'm scared it'll turn into just another thing at which I've failed/lost. 

The truth is, there's always someone else who can do anything better than you. No matter how much you want your existence to matter, to mean something; it never will. There will always have been someone else who could have done the world just as much good as you did. There will never be an alteration in the net good/bad taking place, since once there's such a thing, the very standards by which good and bad are measured automatically get readjusted. The truth is, it could have been literally anyone else born in your place, and it would not have made a difference to anybody. 

My new role as the driver, though supposed to be infuriating, as it would be for any other MS resident, is instead rather calming. It expects very little out of me, which I can fulfill with no problem. It's the only thing left that I can contribute to this new world that cannot be replaced. 

Slowly and gradually I feel a small fear kindling in the pit of my stomach, of the future that I'd always believed would be bright. What if I'm not loved and cherished; what if, instead, I become the anchor that holds back my loved ones to something from which they want freedom? What if the world would have been a better place without me?