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I noticed that "inadequate" popped up as the default mood. It fits, so I'll leave it. It's 11:47pm on a Friday in August. Next week, I turn 31. I could try to write something pretty or something depressing but I'm not really alert enough for that. The state of my life. Well, that's hardly worth going into. I'm considering changing my mood to see if I can come up with something more worthwhile. I guess I should just start typing and see what comes out: I am neither hero nor villian, neither pedagogue nor protege. The restless ennui that consumes my daily existence has taken more of a toll than I wish to confess. I am lost within myself, within the isolated confines of a body that seems sometimes souless. The adamantine shackles I have bound myself with loosen at the touch but, of late, I lack either the courage or the will to break free of them. I am the captive of my own fears. The burdens of the past weigh heavily on me, a past not rife with misdeed but rather abyssal in emptiness. The role of the recluse was forced upon me. Once a self-proclaimed nihilistic hedonist whose only maxim was "Live life to its fullest and reckon not the cost", I have been reduced to a trite object of pity. Pathos. The appearance of suffering. So long without perspective. The ego that counsels me does not have the strength to ply its advice in my behavior. I grow too dense, too convoluted. The bubble popped and my lucidity has left me. What is hope but an unconscious amalgamation of memories of action and result? Shit, a segue would be nice. Or a point. "This I whispered and the darkness murmured back the word 'Lenore'. Only this, and nothing more." Better yet: "Take me away, for by my fay I cannot reason." |