Compared to my peers, I stand no chance. I really don’t. I lack the diversity they celebrate, though my grades are great. I’m focused and driven, yet somehow, I feel disconnected, as if I’m not enough. Melodic ambrosia echoes around me, but as it collapses, so does the illusion, and reality sets in. The way I see myself falls short of the image the world demands.
My life, much like pickles, is a ferment—caught between states, never quite where I should be. Does the grass grow tall when it hears the mower’s lament? No, it doesn’t. It is cut down by the machine, over and over, without mercy. And I am no different. My dreams of academic excellence, too, are pruned, reshaped into something smaller, something less real. They become fantasy, unattainable.
Mother tells you to dream big, so you do. You day-walk through visions of a future where you succeed, where you matter. But the next morning, you return to reality, ambition drained—robbed by the system, by the weight of expectations, by you.
The weight doubles down as time passes, compounding with every moment. It settles on your neck, pulling you toward the ground, beckoning your knee to bend beneath it. The counterweight of your JanSport backpack offers no relief; instead, it drags you further down, like an anchor to your collapse. You simply can’t bear the burden any longer—it gnaws at you, like a cancer, relentless and consuming.
You crumble and crash, feeling the slow, inevitable descent toward an end you can’t quite name. You wait for May, for the relief of it, but May feels impossibly far away. It won't come fast enough if this keeps up. Your motivation flickers, a dying ember that desperately needs rekindling. The fire inside you, once burning bright, needs to be stoked again, or else it will extinguish.
You’ll die out there in the cold, not from frost or ice, but from the freezing emptiness of lost ambition. If you don’t find warmth again—something to spark that drive—you won’t make it through.
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