Story (never written)

I was walking back from the library today. And feeling cliche. And thought this-

How would my story read, if I were to be dead? Should my moral be myself, clutching the last few dollars in my bank account that I haven't handed over to the multinationals plummeting from a tall place in protest of my existence? What is my existence? Just wake up, go to class, try to comprehend. Go to my dorm. Try to unwind. Hear about how I don't comprehend enough. Feel like a disappointment. Go the the library. Try to comprehend and realize I don't. Sink to this. I don't like it. It's not how I want to exist. But, do I really have a choice? My story seems like it's already written. I think the tale of my failed ambitions, disappointments, and collapse has already been laid out. It's just waiting on me to realize it.

And I can't change it. To break continuity creates a paradox. And those always come crashing down (so long as you're not talking about them in relation the the government or the banks. They've got plenty. But I suppose those will come crashing down too, with luck).

This is my story. It's never been written. It's already been told.