Introspectre, (the blog)

I wish I had a vice. I’d love something to make me feel right now. Anything.

Complacent; apathetic

no longer one for living life

Can’t sleep; can’t bear to be awake.

Previously I shunned the loneliness, fought the loneliness, feared the loneliness. It was wrong. It was a shouldn’t-be. It was a peculiarity.

I caught sight of a picture I took earlier this year and was captivated. It was like a relation, a close-but-not-quite; confused doppelgänger getting it down to the finest few points save the ones that scream the loudest to me.

Styled hair, trimmed face, bagless eyes and smile. Radiating warmth.

A stranger.

There’s a private sigh, just for you, as the words escape your lips and you realise you’ve lied to the one person you swore you’d never lie to. Even now they hang on the air like poison, surely thunderous in their falsehood.

Whenever I look behind me and see the wreckage, there’s always a sort of solace. I am learned, I am not who I was; my experiences give me strength and ammunition to deal with the future problems I might face. So long as I remember my past I’ll never fail like I did before, because I’ll have faced the things that challenge me at least once before. I’ll know the cheat codes, the shortcuts... I’ll know it’s not permanent. Even in the absence of solutions, hope can be a potent weapon.

At least, that’s how I feel until my fevered mind evolves. Until I face something new. This current bout of endless nothing, where I have to fixate on food, television and distractions just to dull the incessant protestant that is my mind’s tongue; this is new. The screaming silence, where I am alone but for a judgemental narrator. Not sadness, not anger, just a shrieking in my head.

I feel very peculiar right now; I described it as ‘stretched’ but that’s not at all descriptive. I suppose the best way I can put it is that I feel reluctant, burnt out, that I dread the oncoming hours of nothing. It’s all nothing. There’s no point, no goal, no structure. I can’t figure out what the hell my hours are supposed to amount to, what my time is for.

There’s a promise idling over the horizon, a promise all broken people live by. If we struggle, and survive, it will get better.

Those of us who have been to the depths of ourselves and bounced back live by this promise because we know there’s a ‘real’ us and a ‘broken’ us. Those of us who have only danced once with our devils, however long, hold on to this promise because it’s the only way to brace our sanity in the face of insurmountable odds.

Stick to the plan, keep fighting, and you will be rewarded. You will find peace, happiness and contentment in a future you’ve yet to reach.

At least, that’s the promise.

Right foot; left foot. All is familiar and alien both, a loop where to the external nothing has particularly changed but internally, unobserved. everything has. Where once there was song, now there is a dearth of music. Instead there is a greyness to the world, a hollow that threatens to sweep up and eat everything in it’s path. Apathy, personified.