I put the book in the backpack even though I know I’m not going to read it. I’m just going to end up scrolling on my phone again, stuffing my brain full of useless crap. I’m becoming everything I ever hated. I don’t see the sunshine on the water because my mind is elsewhere. I don’t feel the cosmos flowing through my veins because I’ve numbed myself with alcohol and hangovers. I know the path to peace and happiness; I’ve followed it before. Yet I choose to walk away from the light and become a troubled being like the others. Maybe I’m choosing to do this for a reason. Maybe the pain I’m causing myself will turn to blazing light in a heavenly future. I don’t know to be honest. I don’t know why I do the things I do. I don’t know why I put the book in the backpack even though I know I’m not going to read it. I don’t know why I have those extra drinks at the end of a night out. I don’t know why I’m opening up my phone again, looking at things I don’t even care about. Oh, how the birds sing around me to remind me of what it is to be alive. Oh, how the light tempts me to throw the phone into the river, to detach from this matrix and plug into reality. I pull the book from the backpack. The pages flicker through my hand. I begin reading. I begin again.