7/15/2015

There were a few days of flurry, maybe a few weeks if you were lucky, before it settled in again. It, that suffocating feeling of being stuck in the proverbial rut. Doing the same things the same way every day, knowing that you were stuck and hating yourself for it, but hating yourself in a distant, muffle way. The hatred was as muffled as everything else in the world-covered by a grey sheen of nothingness. You were doing nothing with your life, with the precious time you were given before you died and were given back to whatever god or entity you believed in. You wasted your time on pointless things like work or school, instead of things that made you think great thoughts or feel great feelings. And when they built up to a breaking point and burst out of you, you became another person. One who sits in the park at two in the morning with a group of people you barely know, talking about things that suddenly make perfect sense when they never will in the light of day. The glowing ends of cigarettes and the drifting smoke only make the scene better, and the occasional burst of laughter evens out the philosophical talks and the fact that the words you’re speaking come from a place that is rarely touched and thus rich in life. You felt like it would never end, and vow to yourself that you’ll live like this forever. Something as simple as a movie or a book or a sentence or the way the sky beamed during a particularly beautiful sunset had burned a tiny hole in your mind and made you realize that what felt impossible was actually the easiest thing ever to do. Turn over a new leaf, change your life, all of it. But eventually, those hot nights of sitting around fires or in parks, those days of flurried momentum that keep you propelled through it all-they end and leave you exactly where you were before you started to feel something. You can keep it up for a little while, but eventually it tapers off and you realize with a thick dose of nostalgia that it was half a dream. The words that came out of your mouth for that magnificent period of time will never be acted out, because it’s only in the dark that you have that kind of courage or drive when the light of days shines a harsh reality on all of your dreams, all of your fantasies and philosophical rants and burns them, washes them out to vague notions and dreams that you wish you had the guts to achieve. And it’s then that you realize-you’ll never be a great writer, or a great poet, or a great anything that you had dreamed of and discussed with people who were falling back into normal life. And it leaves you with such a feeling of despondency, and you feel that the others are perfectly fine, they’ve achieved that balance of dream and cold, crippling reality. They’ve made it where you never have and found that happiness, where you can’t even find contentment. It is those emotions that have no words, because words can’t describe something so painful, something that hollows you out so much-it’s those emotions that you feel will someday kill you. And after years and years of feeling them, you’ll gladly die.