Everywhere I go, I’m reminded of the things I have lost, what once was mine. Is there a way to delete memories, but time?
I’m in uncertain lands now, for the first time, not knowing what the inspired me should do, because till this time I have been lost before, but goosebumps have always shown me the way. Now, they just come and go, leaving me as empty-handed as I was before.
Knowledge tells me that I’m back to the wait, to see what I don’t know, and feel what I have not yet felt. But the same knowledge of the past also shows me how the wait can last forever, if I don’t act. Haven’t I been the one who fights and does things because I believe in them, for so long? Is it not time for me to wait, wait so someone else can do what needs to be done, for me, instead?
This perpetual haze has lasted for nearly a year now, with exceptions of the times I wasn’t alone. It’s become a part of me so much that now I don’t remember how it felt before, whether I always had it but only now grew to notice it, or whether it arose anew with unprecedented loss.
I am at the pinnacle of humbling events that make my hands continuously shudder in doubt and fear and which threaten to put me on the same level as everyone around me. Everyone is a philosopher, a writer, a thinker, but why am I different? Is it because I try so hard to be above the rest, if I stopped doing so, would become usual or would I still be special as I believe myself to be? Do I think, or do I not?
When people ask me what kind of writing I write, I have no way of describing it but as a little philosophical and mostly of myself and of general things I want to write about. To me, there is nothing that is otherwise defined as writing, but the kind that I create. I fear, I doubt, and I feel the usual things that a confused person feels. Realization hit me this evening, as I found that I was always only a second away from crying, the heavy feeling at the back of my palette and head always present, just triggered every now and then. I shush myself, I quiet down the potential moan, and ask myself each time if this is how it always felt, or whether this is new. I have reason to believe it is both old and new, and that I have reached a point in life where I am running out of enchantment, and of new things to marvel at in this world. Excuses fill up my brain, and every word seems repetitive yet unfamiliar, as if the expertise of various subjects that I once had is now fading away with the emergence and dominance of loss and regret.
What or who am I waiting for? And if I am to live life waiting, should I do things to feel temporarily better, or do I go with life waiting for it to bring me a cure which by randomness is almost completely improbable?
As always, I come back to the one answer that recurs,
“I don’t know.”
Meliora 