Saturday, March 31, 2018

lost like tears in the rain

People who state depression is a choice, take a moment to think. How would it feel to wake up and not possess the emotional strength to face people? To think time is solely passing by with no tangible reason? To feel utterly alone even when you are sitting in a room full of people? To have to put on a face and hide your feelings because in your mind you think no one would care anyway? To lose friends because you cannot gather the energy to go out and you can’t physically be ‘happy’? To cry yourself to sleep, hoping you wouldn’t wake up and when you do, you are exhausted from the night before. Only for it to all begin again. You attempt to conceal your feelings hoping no one would notice. Now tell me why someone would choose that? Depression is an illness, not a choice.
I haven't been feeling well. On a mental level. Quite depressed these last few days. I have so many images racing through my head - millions and millions of images - I do not sleep much at night. I lay in the dark, coolness of my room and contemplate over the most asinine crap.
But, there lies the conundrum; I am overtly comfortable in my digs, but not happy. I want diversion, excitement, the thrill of living against all odds on the road as in the old days. Tijuana offers none of these things. I cannot connect with the indigenous locals. All my old friends have moved away - there really is nothing here that attracts me. There is nothing left here. Simply the traces of a lost soul. The walls are enclosing, like my mind, forever shrinking unto itself. The days go on and I live as shallowly as the rest of the world. Wandering in a lost city of broken dreams. The coffee in the morning tastes stale and the flowers by the window are now a gray yellow. Music is dull and ambitions are dying. Photos are no longer pretty and old post-it notes have lost their humor. My feet drag me everywhere and nowhere, unwilling to arrive to a happier place. Conversations feel distant and meaningless. Nightmares have become my fantasies. The things which I once loved the most have lost their splendor. I am just a shell now, counting down the days until my most deserved demise. I’m an outline of my former self, loveless and unexpired. I am haunted.
I have spent time frustrated and unfulfilled. Spent time searching for answers. I’ve spent time lamenting. I’ve spent time only existing. I’ve pursued hedonism. Sadism. Atheism. Christianity. Buddhism. I’ve acquainted myself with history’s great philosophers. I’ve searched for peace; peace of body and of mind. I’ve pursued social sciences. I’ve searched for understanding. I’ve searched for truth, riches, knowledge, companionship and love. I’ve hunted and been hunted by time. Reputations won and lost. I’ve confronted my fears. I’ve attempted communication with equals and unequal’s. I’ve tried drugs and sobriety. Rituals and prayer. I’ve looked for kindred spirits in literature and speech. I’ve attempted honesty and treachery. I’ve been myth. I’ve been legend. I’ve been invisible to the world and to myself. All this time, wasted.
What am I going to do? I do not know. I truly do not. And that is driving me mad.

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