I can feel it starting again. The weary feeling in every sinew. The sensation that causes me to ask questions of myself that I cannot begin to answer. Considerations that have drawn man to religion like moths to a flame for countless generations.

Who am I? Why am I here? What is the point of it all?

As before, when I have asked myself these questions, there have been no answers. And why should there be? Who am I to question life, and why should I need such answers? Why, indeed, would those answers bring any relief to me?

The slow loss of feeling and the sensation of being weighed down are not, to me anything new. I know depression, despair and crisis like the back of my own hand. I've wallowed in their cold comfort more than once.

I wonder why these feelings are never accompanied by any factual crisis. Any desperate hour that draws me into the dark embrace of melancholy. Am I simply pre-disposed to such feelings? Or is there some deeper, more fundamental reason for this of which I fail to comprehend?

The contradiction of my emotions is almost untennable. I want to be alone, but when alone, I yearn for the comfort of friendship. When that friendship comes, I can think only of casting it away.

Perhaps it's a backlash from the anger that I still fail to control that runs freely through my veins. It's impossible for me to hate everything, all of the time. Isn't it? Perhaps, in these moments, what I feel is merely the hole left by that hatred. Maybe, in some perverted sense, I need it to keep me stable. Could rage be my nicotine?

Have I hated this world for so long, that my hatred is beginning to destroy me? Or, conversely, is the hatred a side effect of the depession itself? Are both the symptoms of something more dangerous?

I'm not sure how much more I can take. In my rage, I am an invincible avatar, the very voice of reason and justice. In my depressive demoralisation, I am unfeasably vulnerable, an embodiment of impotence and pitiful confusion. Which am I? Am I one, the other, both or neither? Is my very existence some charade, an elaborate joke of which I've not been informed?

I don't know who I am. Maybe I don't want to. I don't know. I don't have the answers. For now, I am merely the vessel for the feelings which command me. A helpless creature being drawn to a destiny I can neither fathom nor control.

0 message(s) of denial

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