Nothing

I am a thirty year old man, that’s all I can tell you right now because the other things about me could land me in a jail cell.
But in order for this story to be interesting at all, I have to open up to what I imagine to be people. As if anyone would view this, but the next things I tell you are just “stories” okay?

I don’t know where to start because I don’t know who to talk about.
I don’t know this written “me”.
Even though it’s not me, it’s me for the moment. The twenty minutes of creating a story, and the two minutes you read it.

I’ll tell you about the age of my said “15” years old. It had been a few months after I tried a fun little thing to fit in, I’m not one to change for people. But that’s the me who I’m newly getting introduced to. I actually am one to change for people, and because of people, or just because I think I want to. Until I look at my skin, everywhere. It’s not the same skin from when I was younger, it feels like it should be the same because I barely remember the time from then to now. It went to fast. Or I was actually incapable of remembering.
Perhaps I got into a fight that I regret because of where it landed me. Maybe the fighter hit a part of my body that caused permanent damage. In my head or real.
Or perhaps I took something that my friends promised was fine, they must have been on it themselves because they were wrong.

I am now thirty years old. I have wasted my life, I’m calling it wasted because I don’t remember it, I don’t want to remember it.
And I wasn’t living life to the fullest, I let it slip away.
Waiting to stop waiting but I have to make the decision to stop the wait.
I’m waiting for nothing.
And now I have nothing.
Nothing to do.
Nothing to have.
I am nothing.
I could have been everything, but I am not.