My life has become a series of disconnected moments. Everything is nebulous, like I am never in myself. But, I’m always here. Even as everything in my life is smoldering and crumbling even more, I am still in stasis.
You always think that rude awakenings are supposed to jolt you back into consciousness. You’re supposed to wake up, and look around, and do something. But in reality, it disconnects you more. It is a strange, musical emptiness. It reminds me of a very dark time; a very empty time. And, poetically, it draws me back to those moments in the most unpredictably subtle ways. My life always leads back to this feeling, like a motif. The strange, icy emptiness, the stoic anguish of solitude.
My time alive has been spent circumventing the feeling that I’m on my way to my own funeral. The only happiness I ever got out of it was when I was ignorant of the truth, unknowing and blatantly wanton. The more deliberate I became, the less I had any land around me; I now know that everyone should feel so. Because it is the only way to see the beauty in life, even if it is chained to the lowest imaginable feelings. When I was younger, I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t a singular, isolated person by projecting everything I could outward into other people. Now that I have no inclination or interest to do so, it is all the more apparent that I am unhappy, and apparent that I have no will to correct myself.
In much the same way that paying any attention to politics saddens and outrages you (if you have a real mind), every step I take towards anything leaves me feeling that there is no point in it. Some of us are so human that it hurts.