I never understand these things I feel
I don't have anything to say but I feel compelled to say it. Or maybe I have plenty to say and I don't know how to express it. I flip-flop between being so emotionally exhausted that I can't think and losing myself thinking about life, the universe, and everything. I want catharsis here - I want the action of typing these words rewarded by some sort of relief. By the ability to care, once more, about anything, anyone. I know, at this point, that there is no solace to be found in the bottle or the bud. I've gone over it in my mind, I've dissected it with these neural knives, and the scraps left on the table always speak the same words - like tea leaves, they tell me my happiness does not hinge on these chemical consolations. In many cases, quite the opposite. And still, in my lows, in my desparate desire to feel something, anything, or failing that, nothing, I turn to outside influences.
Years ago, I hoped that there was a chemical wormhole between life's malaise and happiness, opened by the onset of SSRIs into my system. These days, I hope that there's a direct flight from emotional numbness to feeling on distilled grain airlines. It works sometimes. I feel something, or I fall asleep. I'm alive, or I avoid life.
Insert distraction. Mutual political masturbation with the housemates intermixed with miscellania. I couldn't tell you now what we talked about ten minutes ago, and here's why:
I
Don't
Care.
That's where I've been recently - wandering the seemingly endless land of apathy. I just can't bring myself to care about anything other than my lack of interest in life and the living. I can't care about you and your thoughts and desires and problems when I can't even care about my own. I'd say I'm sorry, but I wouldn't even mean it. I am Jack's tabula rasa, and there is no chisel in sight to carve into me.
Guess what else I don't care about at the moment?
Years ago, I hoped that there was a chemical wormhole between life's malaise and happiness, opened by the onset of SSRIs into my system. These days, I hope that there's a direct flight from emotional numbness to feeling on distilled grain airlines. It works sometimes. I feel something, or I fall asleep. I'm alive, or I avoid life.
Insert distraction. Mutual political masturbation with the housemates intermixed with miscellania. I couldn't tell you now what we talked about ten minutes ago, and here's why:
I
Don't
Care.
That's where I've been recently - wandering the seemingly endless land of apathy. I just can't bring myself to care about anything other than my lack of interest in life and the living. I can't care about you and your thoughts and desires and problems when I can't even care about my own. I'd say I'm sorry, but I wouldn't even mean it. I am Jack's tabula rasa, and there is no chisel in sight to carve into me.
Guess what else I don't care about at the moment?