I am not interested with food now.
My eyes are tired, but my mind isn’t. I cannot sleep.
This whole ordeal is burning me out.
I cannot make music, I cannot make art.
I could only write, if, to write, my heart would be relieved.
I am disinterested with the things I used to love.
There is this great pressure to be what is expected of me.
Even laughing has become a thing of the past. Where have all my chuckles gone?
—that short moment of spiritual exhalation that seemed so abundant then.
And now, during the wee hours of the morning, when all the world is quiet and harmless and vulnerable, I try to accept a defeat. I could turn it around, but what of it when it is achieved?
Every chance, every voice, every taunting reminder of a decent life favors a different direction. But I cannot simply abandon my values, ideals, and responsibilities.
Sigh.
…
I feel like some deranged ready-to-spawn-and-die-afterwards salmon swimming upstream on a wonderful summer day. Why hello, hungry bears.
