I feel an incessant need to channel this confusion into words in the hope that by their articulation I will be able to find comprehension that remains, not just fleeting moments of inspiration that leave me feeling even more deprived once they depart. I read and write listlessly, driven less by motivation than a basal need to find something to do to occupy my mind. It is a desolate life, and it is the fact that I am not in the least bit worried about the lack of human contact that worries me; not the state itself. It is not just through the night that these ponderous doubts pound me, like a beating to the already dented brain, but they are always there, blurred at the edges yet menacing nonetheless. I am determined, but determined without purpose. What I seek is a higher meaning in a meaningless life inhabited by all these petty people who care so much about the puniness of their pathetic lives.
I want to describe to you how it feels to be scared, to submit not out of love but out of the fear that once what you have is gone there will be nothing else, absolutely nothing left, to follow not out of understanding but out of ignorance, to pretend you have found something and are clinging on to it because you are tired of searching. I need you back in my life and I need you to calm this restless soul. I know you are out there even though I am constantly plagued by all these questions about how do I really know, how do I know really? And when am I going to draw the line?, because I am scared, I am very scared and inside I am like a frightened rabbit running for cover but God I am caught in the headlights and I am destined for a very sad end.
It astounds and shames me that I have lost the definition of what my principles used to be, those sure and steady rules that I knew I could count on and turn back to when everything else became grey. In the pursuit of more knowledge I lost most of what I already had and now there is a gaping hole of emptiness that I am frantically trying to fill with a tangled mess of hope destined for death and a jumble of thoughts rationalised to be reasonable enough to form the foundations of my intellectual self. But the discontent tells me this mass will not suffice and so I am still looking and hoping and waiting, but –
I felt an incessant need to channel this confusion into words in the hope that by their articulation I would be able to find comprehension that remains. But I have not found it.
