That which could not be named

I have to write something about anything. The vacant sensation within is overpowering me into a seclusion of a novel nature. I am sick of fighting for everything, I am sick of hoping for the best, I am sick of hearing distant laughter in the midst of what should be called as the blackish blue period of life. They say you should express yourself, but why? For what reason?

Things should be easier, smoother, more accommodating and less troubling. It should be the good times; these are the times that I should look back at and laugh. These are the times that will enable me to tell interesting stories to my future nieces and nephews, as they look up to me with pondering looks and eager minds ready to imagine the details of the adventures, the sensation of the experience and the thrill of successful closure.
As seconds pass and the realization of wastage sets in, the realization of failure to establish a foundation for a full life becomes clearer and clearer. The experiences keep getting more limited and filtered until nothing is left except an encore of a boring charade that some call life. And then the importance of tomorrow becomes futile, the thrill of the new becomes absent of your daily life and as your existence becomes a predictable mess of nothingness, your mind reaches for escapism, but alas, there's no escape from this, no medicine for your ailment and no healer for your gushing wounds.
As your life surrenders to the will of the mundane, as your identity becomes molded by things you can't control and as you witness your inevitably dull morbid future, the kind of future you don't wish for your enemies, you realize the person you've become.
You realize that maybe you didn't fight hard enough, maybe you threw down your white towel too early, maybe you should have tried another angle, maybe you should have decided on another strategy. There must have been something, there must have been a turning point, but you soon come to the conclusion that as you let more and more of who you are gets blown, you let yourself become that which you fear. You become the vision that you tried to avoid, you become the person you see and wish you'd never become. You become a person you hate.

And even though you know and you're sure that your life didn't turn out the way it should have been, you keep trying to convince yourself that this the way it was meant to turn out. That this life was the best you can afford, yes, it was the best your damned mind could devise, YOU SICK COWARD, POOR EXCUSE OF A HUMAN BEING, dragging your feet like two dead weights and you should be dead, because you have no back bone, no will, nothing, you're just a burden to society, to life, to the earth, you're nothing and you've always been nothing, you're a failure, a towel thrower, a person with no resolve.