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Beauty in Despair

I don't know who I am anymore

I feel so empty, like I’m just a shell of my former self. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I don’t think I even know who I am.  Who is that strange face staring back at me in the mirror? I don’t know this person. Who am I? What have I become?

I can’t say I like what I’ve become, this parasitical pseudo businessperson. Can I even call myself that? A businessperson? I look back at what I’ve accomplished all these years and it really feels empty. Hollow. Like chasing wind and I suppose that what it all is, really.

I mean could it really be anything else? I don’t think I ever thought it would. I think I’ve always known that pursuing this line would lead to emptiness and nothingness. I hate it when I’m right!

Oh well. At least I can draw some comfort that a few of my choices had lead to a better path. Despite the taunting and obvious decrease in funds I cannot deny the judiciousness of my choice is reducing my working hours. I mean, really! If work leads to nothing but chasing wind, why spend more than necessary pursuing such emptiness? Why bother?

Sure, it’s nice to have some extra cash to pay the bills, but that is that really what life is all about? Is this all it is? Work work work and remain unappreciated, and invisible for just a fistful of dollars? To what end?

To buy a bigger house, a bigger car? Which will lead to what? More maintenance more funds to disburse and more time to spend maintain said larger assets. Is that really the key to happiness? I mean I always thought that real happiness meant an attempt to pursue at least some of your dreams no matter how silly they may seam. Even if it means working a little less, living in a smaller house.

I’d rather live in a tiny house filled with light and music and color, than a drab, lifeless grey tower with nothing more than empty hollow walls echoing in their loneliness.  

I’ve always at least had some attempt to pursue what truly interests me. Music, art, literature. I find I at least, can lose myself in the dreariness of the day by spending a few minutes lost in thought. Chasing through the imaginary landscapes of my mind, trying to find some form of creativity.

Now, it seems, I can barely muster enough energy to do just that. It seems every attempt I have to sit at my computer, or with my pen and notebook, I am too tired, or devoid of imagination to come up with anything worth writing. That really sucks! I’m not sure what the answer is, or what I should do exactly.

I just want to spend a good long amount of time with enough energy and ideas pouring out to last a night. I’d love just that, to scribbled furiously, type so fast to try and keep up with the abundance of thoughts and ideas bursting from my mind, desperate and dying to break free.

Perhaps one day I will find that place again. Once day I will return to the creative person I once was, instead of this shell, this half alive husk of a human.

Until then, my soul remains unfulfilled, my mind unrested.

Perhaps I will find myself again, when I can once again get lots in the fury of a thousand thoughts all fighting to get through from the recesses of my mind to the end of my fingertips.

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The Vienna Rose

February 2014

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