Two Stupid Paragraphs and No pictures.
Someone asked me last night, in broken English, what my goals in life are. Knowing the groups communication level I responded, “Not to kill myself before I am forty years old,” with a jolly smile. The smile is all they saw and the sentiment of my sentence was only known to me, but I kept the placid grin on my face interrupted only by the sip of alcohol as it reached my lips. It confuses even myself, to see such happiness on a daily basis and to feel such staunch despair, a knowing glimpse of reality in the mirror every morning as I apply the days make up to cover my sullen eyes and tired face. I wonder if this is it, for people like me, a struggle to see the gain of each day coming, with all the memories of what my life could have been as if they once were, and somehow slipped away through my fingers like silk blowing in the wind.
I so wished that my writing could return with a great fever of joy and the emphasis of the life that I see worth living, but that is not where my words come from. Instead, from the real place where my mind often finds itself, and not from the world where people know me, as the smiling happy face in the flower crown. The funny part, perhaps only to me, is that I am not even depressed. This is not me being depressed, it is a much worse state to be, a world that is without feeling. A transient day to day of nothing. I am embarrassed to share these kind of thoughts, I feel obligation to be more than this, more than morose, more than complaining. But I think that maybe there are others feeling the same things that I feel, and perhaps through a moment of sharing, someone else will realize that they are not alone.