Band of Gypsies by 21:34 [my new pen name]

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL It wasn't love. Hell, it wasn’t even affection, if I’m being honest with myself. It was me, playing the savior, thinking I could pull her—or anyone—out of the fire they kept lighting for themselves. Maybe it wasn’t just her. Maybe I thought I could save them all. But what did I get for my trouble? Years. Twelve years of gray hairs, a belly I didn’t notice creeping up until one day I looked in the mirror and saw this old man staring back at me. Every idea I had of myself, back then—bloated, grandiose—it was all just smoke. Just as fabricated as the notion that I could fix anyone. I couldn’t save her. And I sure as hell couldn’t save myself. We’re all wired for self-destruction, aren’t we? Bent on the slow, agonizing path toward our own ruin. Sinners, doomed to this cycle of indulgence and denial, depravity and repentance. Why do I even bother getting out of bed anymore? What does any of it mean when you've lost the ability to care? And I don’t care. Not one bit. But my kid... he’s been there with me. Stubbornly sticking around, like a shadow I never asked for but somehow needed. Jes, the slow one, the quiet one, saying shit that cuts through all the noise sometimes. Eleven years ago, he came into my life, conjured up demons that never really left, even when I thought they had. They linger, compounding with each passing year. Maybe they’re the ones spinning the spheres in my mind, making sure I cling to whatever hollow principles I thought meant something. But it’s all gone now. The dream, the illusion—it’s over. It’s funny, though. Those echoes from long ago, the old folks’ voices still haunt me. "When you lose your health, you lose it all." "Enjoy it while you're young." Platitudes, right? But now, as I sit here, broken down, they seem like warnings I never heeded. And there’s her, Jes’ mother—the crippled keeper, always lurking in the background like some greedy witch, waiting to steal and cheat her way through life. Always ready to swoop in, hide in the shadows, cast her spell. She’s one of them—the narcissists with their little band of demons. Each one of them has a seat in the front row, popcorn in hand, watching the destruction unfold. Every time I see them there, I leave half my own bag for them. It’s important, you know? Not to let your life slip away without at least acknowledging the demons that came for the ride. So here I am, in this uncanny valley of my own making. Somewhere between Kierkegaard’s anxiety and Nietzsche’s nihilism, though sometimes it feels more like an AI glitching out on a half-baked philosophical hologram. And just for kicks, I’d throw in a Nazi like Heidegger to referee the whole damned mess. What a twisted, cursed trinity that is. But it's where I am—stuck between the abyss and the absurd. --- https://youtu.be/03cwH3Ea1mA?si=phpxdXGGpzQLg96q