People seem not to see that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character. —Emerson
“As a child I felt myself to be alone, and I am still… Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible.” – Carl Jung
I love thick forests, tall trees, rolling fog, the sound of dew drops falling through the canopy, craggy coastlines, the rhythmic echo of crashing waves, carpets of creeping moss and timid ferns sprouting through dark soil, punctuated by beaming blossoms of wildflowers sprinkled about the forest floor
I’m laying in bed, restless. I think about writing everyday, but I fail to take time out of my day to aspirate my soul and pen proof of the fleeting experiences defining existence I wish to capture here.
There is so much I need to write about. In a way, this space has been violated. I don’t feel safe anymore, so I scratch in my journal.
Daily observations take place less frequently when you fail to write.
There are life changing events unfolding as we speak. I feel numb as usual. And empty.
I work to distract myself from my melancholy. I wear my smile. I yearn and reach for the makeshift dream that gets me up on the morning, barely. The crushing weight of responsibility and duty is only exceeded by my carelessness toward life itself. I will stumble toward the finish line, and half a stumble later I find myself sprinting in a half sleep. This is how to characterize my life.
I am not afraid.
There is no punishment worse than self punishment.
I should eject these anxious feelings. Write opening and honestly. I am not afraid. This is what I will repeat to myself as I curl up and close my eyes and dream the world away.
Except, that now, I have someone else waiting for me.
I don’t know how this will turn out, but I am not afraid. I walk on. Through. Toward.
Wake up, I tell myself. Sleep, I tell myself.
There is no depth here, and my heart aches.