Six.

16 days from the deadline, the beckoning voices of nearby private universities grow sweeter. The unfinished essays in shared google docs with a friend remain unfinished. As one by one the people around me give up, each uttering a pathetic variation of “next year”, I wonder if i should keep trying. Let’s be honest for a second here, fellow millennials. We all learnt to kill our dreams. Born with a silver spoon and fingers curled around a smartphone, we were injected with the most glamorous hopes and dreams. And somewhere in your teenage years, the world of unrealistic expectations meets the real world, resulting in a train-wreck of a reality check.

Tyler’s voice keeps playing. It has been on repeat for a while now. Each word, once filled with emotions and yearnings, now became empty syllables following another in a predetermined pattern. Like the drawling recitation of poems from a poetry book when literature classes were a mandatory thing and everyone, even the teacher, would rather do something else.

I’m driving here I sit, cursing my government, for not using my taxes to fill holes with more cement. There are too many holes now, all the cement in the world will not fix the monumental fuck up that is this country.

The time for strategic steps has long past. It is just frantic clutches at straws hoping the root is stronger than the last this time.

If it wasn’t for this music I don’t know how i would’ve fought this. True. 16 more days. I can do it. Right?

We’re broken people.
Art.

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