Is this a mid-life crisis or a mid-life cry?
"I'm exercising the demons"
I don't host the kind of darkness that needs to run,
but I wonder:
How many people suffered and sacrificed before me,
so that I might do more than
organize the lives of strangers?
I'm lonely. The kind of loneliness that self-isolates.
My solitude is not desperate, sad or woefully withdrawn.
I am in deep introspection. I have crafted an art of self-care and cynicism. In relation to building relationships, whether by choice or circumstance, compatibility or capability weigh toward: deficit.
I am not alarmed, nor entirely numb. I am 35. Life has too many expectations and obligations mandated by quality and security. Of a delicate and stubborn disposition, I must commit and commit again to survival.
The world for me has changed too quickly, and of types, I stereotype myself as archaic, obsolete - on the path of extinction. Unlike Sarte and Camus, however, I think current times would misinterpret my melancholy as romanticism. It is this change I feel, that makes me sigh. How is it that feeling can be idealized even if that feeling is one of absurd nothingness?
I don't host the kind of darkness that needs to run,
but I wonder:
How many people suffered and sacrificed before me,
so that I might do more than
organize the lives of strangers?
I'm lonely. The kind of loneliness that self-isolates.
My solitude is not desperate, sad or woefully withdrawn.
I am in deep introspection. I have crafted an art of self-care and cynicism. In relation to building relationships, whether by choice or circumstance, compatibility or capability weigh toward: deficit.
I am not alarmed, nor entirely numb. I am 35. Life has too many expectations and obligations mandated by quality and security. Of a delicate and stubborn disposition, I must commit and commit again to survival.
The world for me has changed too quickly, and of types, I stereotype myself as archaic, obsolete - on the path of extinction. Unlike Sarte and Camus, however, I think current times would misinterpret my melancholy as romanticism. It is this change I feel, that makes me sigh. How is it that feeling can be idealized even if that feeling is one of absurd nothingness?