It's the last you'll ever get
It might just be the monthly disruption of hormones, but something changed in my head last night. It made last night torture; restless, listless torture. Today, after sleeping off the remainder of the rum and sex, I awoke to the feeling of irritation and a kind of sadness without explanation. I’m not sure what it is, but I seem to be having some kind of crisis; a confusion of hopes and ideals. My current path is either heading for success, at the cost of life, or failure, at the cost of worth. I’m tired of doing things I don’t enjoy, of hiding behind a poorly constructed façade. I don’t even have a reason to hide. A perfect boyfriend, a loving family, wonderful friends, a history of success, but I don’t feel like I’m enough. I don’t even know what I’m not enough of. Do I want too much? Am I craving something better? Am I just another capitalist, speed consumer? If I don’t have the best, if I don’t have it now, am I discontent?
I need passion. I need fire. I need something to relight the fire of life in me. I had it, I drank from it, I loved it for a year. I had pain, drama, excitement, happiness, and now it’s urbane, simple. It seems wrong to crave the destruction and confusion I swore off. Perhaps this is the effect of watching fictional lives take more exciting turns where mine is a timetabled affair with no twist or spark. To try and blame people for this would be cruel, and misjudging my own lack of interest. It is me who is boring, not the others I drag into my dullness. But to bring back my passion would be to hurt. Or is it possible to enliven myself without causing pain? Can I get out of this rut without dramatics and disaster? I want the country side. Where the quiet and monotony drives me insane, lets me live through the imagination without feeling ill.
To look at the past is masochistic, but it’s just too tempting.
I need passion. I need fire. I need something to relight the fire of life in me. I had it, I drank from it, I loved it for a year. I had pain, drama, excitement, happiness, and now it’s urbane, simple. It seems wrong to crave the destruction and confusion I swore off. Perhaps this is the effect of watching fictional lives take more exciting turns where mine is a timetabled affair with no twist or spark. To try and blame people for this would be cruel, and misjudging my own lack of interest. It is me who is boring, not the others I drag into my dullness. But to bring back my passion would be to hurt. Or is it possible to enliven myself without causing pain? Can I get out of this rut without dramatics and disaster? I want the country side. Where the quiet and monotony drives me insane, lets me live through the imagination without feeling ill.
To look at the past is masochistic, but it’s just too tempting.