As my eyes slowly try to make their way within the confines of my skull, and as my body completely melts into the mattress that’s been my only sense of comfort since I moved here, the entire future I’ve envisioned for myself seems so…meaningless.

After a lengthy conversation on the phone with my friend who’s been traveling around the East, and hearing about all these wonderful adventures he’s gone on, interesting people he’s met, and unique jobs he’s been given, I realize now that just because I’ve made a stable life for myself doesn’t mean it’s a fulfilling one.

If you would’ve asked me an hour ago how my future looked, I would’ve told you that it looks bright and worth fighting for. But now? I mean, what am I fighting for? Material goods? To have some hot girlfriend to gloat about? Is it so my family can be proud of me? Is it to show people who are no longer relevant in my life that I’m not the person they thought I was? Because when it comes down to it, thinking about accomplishing any of those things doesn’t make me feel “happy.”

Now I’m not like my friend. I’m not a traveler. I like to visit and be a tourist, but I couldn't live the life like he does.

So when I ask myself “Okay Shazam, what would make you happy? What would make moving out here feel like the right thing to do? What would make this fight worth it?” and I don’t have an answer, I question what I’m doing. What part of me has it’s foot on the pedal while I’m trying to slam on the brakes.

I don’t even know where I’m going with this, I’ve completely lost my train of thought and I’m sure it’s painfully obvious. I just need to go bed.