This is your shot. Don't blow it.

A Story by Slowtown

Notes on permanence.

Something inside me burns so bad that I want to peel off my skin and crawl out of my body for a while, sitting there and watching it die. I am nothing like my body. It's weak and temporary, and I aim to be here long after it has rotted away in the earth. I want to leave a part of me behind, plastered on subway turnstiles and the insides of eyelids. I want to stick to the sides of brains and play in the backs of heads, because long after I'm dead (perhaps I already am) I need to be remembered. The reason most folks need want to believe- need to believe that there's something after death, is that something inside them knows that there's not. A deep gnawing pit of inadequacy lurks in stomachs worldwide and every person knows that whatever they're doing is not enough. Nothing is ever enough. What am I worth when so many people have my talent? Who is to say that someone else hasn't written these words before? I feel bad some days. I feel bad because I am meant for great things, but not great enough. I spend my days in fluorescent lighting feeling layers of me burn off under the glare, and I know that every second a part of me dies. Every minute is a minute wasted, regardless of what it is spent on, because nothing is ever enough. Anything that is done can be done better next time, only there will never be a next time. The world gives you one chance to experience every moment and look at us, wasting it.

Everything you have ever accomplished in your life could have been done better.