useless

I wish I was doing half the things I dream in my head I was doing. Things like the stories running through my head all day. The adventures of Tom fucking Sawyer. The story of Steven Spielberg’s rise to fame. The meandering arguments of Socrates. Except the joke is these are just thoughts trapped in the mind of a crazy guy fantacizing about what it could be like – all the while consumed by the fear that this will continue no where till old age, where sitting forgotten in a windowless basement somewhere, hair grey and mind ailing, these same fantasies will plague him and he will wish he had dies 60 years younger a death being more significant than the insignificance of the sorry state he has become and actually always was.

Useless.