I’m empty, soulless and tired. I have little interaction, socially, outside of work and the obvious unhealthiness of it is eroding any confidences I have. Being this way to me is tolerable or at least acceptable personally, but when it breaches from the internal and leaks out for others to notice I retreat deeper within myself. It is disgusting, nearly intolerable, but the pattern follows the life long behavior and slowly I love it. Drawing from the pain is easy and even easier is the ability to transform it into mental events or scenarios that never take place and are always of the darkest nature. Troubled by what I can’t stand to be a part of and fear its altogether absence sends me reeling into depths that seem too gone to get away from. I know nothing else; though I am not ignorant enough to think it’s going to be such a constant state of emotional torture, I still can believe I won’t hold on to anything greater than the darkness I wear as a ring.
I shopped to feel better: does this beat drinking? Trading evils, bartering with anything to alleviate shame and disappointment with the person I call me?
Understanding what Isaac Asimov said about never having writers block because he was so curious about so many different subjects gives me hope. The kind of hope that I’ll someday write stories that rape the optimism from my readers and leave them feeling something strong and perverse about what they’d thought they’d had a confident grasp on. I am surrounded by books about so many different subjects that could very easily provide me with material to prevent the block only to be blanketed with dust and neglect. If there was a switch I’d flick it, a torch to light and I’d ignite it with my eyes closed just to taste my potential for the seconds I savoir them.
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