I feel like I am out of breath. Literally cannot breathe. Air is given to me slowly, in small portions if at all (who’s giving me this mercy … or this misery?). It is air; it should be air that’s missing in my lungs, that’s keeping my head low… It’s that invisible air which I cannot see and I cannot define. It must be it, The air, because… what else could that be?
It’s half past ten and I just ate again. I thought it was hunger. Maybe it was? I feel like that emptiness is filled for once. And I can write, though just today I promised to myself that I will not.
My diary is full of wining about MYSELF. Recently I got curious and read some passages from last year and the year before. It made me feel so bad: to re-live all those painful sentences over again, without that much intensity but with a lingering feeling of worthlessness (if there is such a word at all). And the worst thing was: I haven’t changed…
So today I promised myself that I will not write (or think) about myself. You see, I noticed that I get so tired of the same depressive thoughts circling in my mind over and over again, that I tend to immerse myself into doing mindless things such as eating without limit or “marathoning” Korean dramas, the more ridiculous or sorrowful, the better (as if feeling the feelings of others would give me a valid reason for being sad).
[Yes, there is no reason for emptiness. No reason for anger. No reason for fear, that stinging fear. No reason for sadness. No reason at all. At all.]
Time is passing by. I started to notice that some wrinkles on my forehead fail to disappear when I face the shadow or that the corners of my lips are now wagging their tails down. And I still haven’t been…!
…yet, I feel so old already. As if my body just gave up on me (while we were never best friends, did we, my body and my mind?).
Time is running out on me. And you don’t know how numb and lifeless you are until you read those pages of your diary and realize that you don’t need to write at all. You can just copy and paste, for it is always all the same. What did I do all those years? Where was I? It’s all the same: my worries, my fears, my insecurities. Everything! Where was I all this time? So many years have passed and I still think the same. I still have the same wishes. I am so tired to dream because even my dreams are the same. I no longer draw because no new thoughts come to my mind. And when I try, try and try again to think of some goals (small steps, they say in those awful self-help books, right?)… Every. single. time.
I thought, if I could break out this shell, if I finish what I started, if I realize those dreams that are lingering, crying over and over again in my head… But when I sit down, it’s just … so … so … SO (!) … something… Something..! SOMETHING! I start, I am enthusiastic, I’m good to go, one hour or so and then… then…
It must be air that I cannot take in. It must be air that I so terribly miss every single time. It must be air, that invisible overwhelming something keeping me at bay. That must be it, for what else can it be?