If there were a cure for emptiness, would you tell me? And if there was a way to forget things that never were, would you tell me? I’ve started over-consuming myself so much that I feel physically sick and tired.
One day existentialism will prove to be my killer rather than my saviour. All it does is delay everything. And I begin to wonder why do I decide to delay? OK, it’s because I’ve made plans, but they are not overly important, except that I’ve tricked my mind into this–therefore, all have become important. So best is not to worry about it too much, do it and keep delaying. Yep. But I can’t help scratching the back of my head and wonder WHY I’m doing this?
All these questions won’t disappear, and my body begins to heat up like always, melting away the ice beneath my feet. So I create distractions, as this is the only thing I can do when feeling lost or distressed. Come on, you’ve felt like this for years, and it’s never been that hard to handle it. Are you losing interest? What’s wrong with you?
I was watching leaves hit the ground at the park, and I almost cried. I can’t comprehend this sentiment. Why did I feel that way? Oh yeah, there were particular images behind my eyes that I was trying to reimagine, but the way I re-imagined them made them a hell of a lot sadder than before. But no, I didn’t cry. I just admired the colourful landscape. I pretended that fall was still here.
I pretend to be many things to romanticize and even fictionalize what I believe is not appropriate in reality.
Feelings of accomplishment are no longer the same. When I used to finish stories or attempted novels at the age of 13, 14, I used to let out a sigh of joy as though experiencing an orgasm. I would then continue to dwell in that story for a while and pretend to be my protagonist. But I no longer feel the same way. Nowadays, things lose more and more meaning, and it’s beyond my power to maintain any.
Everything gets out of hand, and I can no longer hold what’s beautiful.
You should go.
You heard me the first time.
