Wednesday, 3 November 2010

Sometimes I go to sleep with the desire, often even with the hope, not to wake up ever again, and in the morning when I open my eyes and see the sun again I feel sad.
If at least I were unstable. If I could blame time, someone else, something I failed to do, the unbearable weight of my sickness would be less painful. Fuck my life! I know even too well that the fault is all mine, and mine only. But not even the guilt....enough to say that in me is the source of all trouble, there were once was the source of all happiness. Am I not still the one who could spend hours just engaging with his own feelings? The one who was able to disclose a paradise at each step, and that had a heart big enough to contain the entire world?
This heart of mine is now dead. No more feelings are coming out of it.
My eyes are dry and I'm constantly frowning as I haven't cried for so long.
I suffer so much because I've lost what was the only joy of my life. The magical force with which I used to create worlds around me is gone.
And now, I stand by the window and look at that faraway hill and at the sun that cuts through the mist of the morning, and at the river that seems to flow towards me....if I look at this amazing nature that seems like it's been frozen in a badly painted picture, I feel absolutely NOTHING. I feel like there's a void instead of my heart, instead of my soul.
No tears, nothing at all. I even prayed, prayed God, after so long, to make me feel something.

1 comment:

  1. I met someone who was a couch potato.

    He missed the sort of television programme he used to enjoy and daily complained at all the stuff he was watching, day in, night out which he didn't care for and didn't enjoy but at least it gave him something to complain about.

    The trouble is that because he never went out and never had anyone visit, the television was the only thing he ever knew about - even though it depressed him.