Entry 3: A slow descent into the mud

I've come to realise that as I get older, which I hopefully and eventually will, I will begin to accept my impending descent into the mud that is accepting that I cannot change the world, nor can anyone. I want to, I really really want to make the world a better place for ones that I feel deserve it, but I think I'm starting to finally come to terms with the fact that heroes are a fable, a fantasy, something to keep the collective sanity afloat.  And while this fantasy slowly cracks and shatters, my sanity follows its path. I am not a hero, nor will I ever be one. I am a child inspired by her favourite stories to make a change for better, and the adults in her life do not have the heart or the guts to tell her that her hopes and dreams are forever to remain hopes and dreams, illusions. You can't tell a child such a thing. 

We live in a world populated by adult children who believe that they can turn their dreams into reality, because let's face it: we've all seen the motivational speeches on youtube, listened to self-help podcasts, tried hot yoga, eaten bitter greens. We've all convinced ourselves that our destiny as a human race isn't already premeditated. 

With this realisation I am hopeful to achieve something that I cannot yet fathom, inner peace perhaps. Though I must admit, the only thing that I'm experiencing at the moment is a scary black hole growing inside of me, devouring my feelings and my empathy, everything that keeps me from becoming a nihilistic tart. I have managed to tame this hole for a while now, but I know that it will eventually swallow everything that I am and once was and leave nothing but a hopeless ghost. I only hope that I can delay this carnage until I reach a moment where I am finally pleased with myself and my achievements. I fear that might take a while.