Isolation
This past week I’ve done nothing. When people ask me what new things have happened to me, I have nothing to tell. I’d think that this is just a bout of depression that’s happening with me, but this always happens every so often, and never as soft as the last.
I look back on when I had infinite passion to do things, and I’m filled with envy for my former self.
I go through a short time of limited trust in anyone, when I’m completely dishonest to myself and other people around me; there is not one person in the world that I could speak without hesitation to.
I lose faith in humanity, lose faith in where we’re going, lose faith in what matters to me the most.
But what really does matter to me? Whenever I feel “in the moment” to do something, nothing ever comes of it. Whenever I feel inspired and am in awe, the feelings just die down once I get back home. Whenever I try to concentrate on what should matter to me…in the long run, I get distracted about what really matters to me.
After all, what should matter to me continues to lie in silent night, while what I think about is all over the news all the time, and all over my heart. But whose fault is that?
I know I’m talking abstractly…and on different tangents on every angle, but there really is no one to turn to for some of my problems. I can’t consult with either of the groups of which I belong and of which I love, for both groups despise each other. Each group would know only part of the truth, and I’d still be hiding something.
Sometimes I think I’m like a phoenix: these feelings drag me down to die, but I hope that later I’ll regain my “passion”.
And sometimes I feel like I’m a actor: feeling depressed about the “truth”, but later putting back on my masks to feign who I really am.
Feeling trapped.
