dear jess
The sore sullenness of nothingness. Whilst people aim at the ultimate nothingness I live in it day after day, after day, after day and it doesn’t seem like nirvana to me.
As I lie in the uncovered sheets of my pillow, a sudden seriousness strikes me. One that lives without the drama, without the need for pity, one that tells me perhaps in reality there is really something wrong with me. Perhaps truly I live in depression day by day.
Have you ever noticed how your tongue becomes absolutely tasteless after a bad case of flu and nothing you eat or smell gives you pleasure. My life seemingly takes on that form these days. Everything I’ve claimed to be passionate about passes me by insignificantly. I don’t know what I want to do and perhaps worse still I don’t care.
Nothing excites me. Not the drive of a new venture, the attention of a boy or two, the claims of love and possible security, the possibility of changing, being, doing. Absolutely nothing.
It’s almost as if I’d be better if I was in the jungles of amazon looking in the eye of a cobra about to bite me as I think back about how much I’d rather be here.
I tell myself its time to grow up to get trapped in the world of nine to fives and that passion is a thing of the past that I should be thankful happened at all. Everyone does it -they go into the office, back home, a holiday once in a while and in a blink they’re ten years ago.
Ten years on. Ten years back. I’m indifferent to anything and everyone right now. And since I feel impassionate about anything in my life right now, I really can’t be bothered what you’re doing with yours. I’m sure its better than mine.
Perhaps it’s the realization that I haven’t anything to write, not even a mundane story of how work sucks and my boss should eat my shoes.
unfortunately yours,
jess
The sore sullenness of nothingness. Whilst people aim at the ultimate nothingness I live in it day after day, after day, after day and it doesn’t seem like nirvana to me.
As I lie in the uncovered sheets of my pillow, a sudden seriousness strikes me. One that lives without the drama, without the need for pity, one that tells me perhaps in reality there is really something wrong with me. Perhaps truly I live in depression day by day.
Have you ever noticed how your tongue becomes absolutely tasteless after a bad case of flu and nothing you eat or smell gives you pleasure. My life seemingly takes on that form these days. Everything I’ve claimed to be passionate about passes me by insignificantly. I don’t know what I want to do and perhaps worse still I don’t care.
Nothing excites me. Not the drive of a new venture, the attention of a boy or two, the claims of love and possible security, the possibility of changing, being, doing. Absolutely nothing.
It’s almost as if I’d be better if I was in the jungles of amazon looking in the eye of a cobra about to bite me as I think back about how much I’d rather be here.
I tell myself its time to grow up to get trapped in the world of nine to fives and that passion is a thing of the past that I should be thankful happened at all. Everyone does it -they go into the office, back home, a holiday once in a while and in a blink they’re ten years ago.
Ten years on. Ten years back. I’m indifferent to anything and everyone right now. And since I feel impassionate about anything in my life right now, I really can’t be bothered what you’re doing with yours. I’m sure its better than mine.
Perhaps it’s the realization that I haven’t anything to write, not even a mundane story of how work sucks and my boss should eat my shoes.
unfortunately yours,
jess
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