I often find myself at a table inside a coffee shop with the intent of writing a post. I order my drink, sit down and open my laptop. Then boom… All my inspiration is gone. Why does that happen? Even writing these sentences, I don’t know where I’m going with it.
I am empty. I’m trying to find a purpose, a reason to wake up each morning and be excited to be alive. What’s wrong with me?
My therapist says I need to find my home within the core of myself. But how can I do that when I can’t find my core? I don’t have a foundation to depend on. My foundation growing up didn’t exist, and now it has followed into my adult life. I was always moving, I didn’t really have a place to call home, and I still don’t. The instability remains. I’ve found my home within people; but who am I kidding, those people disappear eventually, and then I’m just empty again.
When I’m alone, I check out. My mind drifts away, to where? Anywhere but inside my head, which is ironic because I’m a prisoner in my own thoughts. I always wonder where I can find home. The grass is never greener on the other side, but it doesn’t stop me from trying to go anyway. I’ve been missing Philly a lot lately, and part of me wants to pack my things and head back. But logically, I know it’s not a good decision right now. I’m just so used to being on the move after a certain time. Growing up, I moved nearly every year or two years. Can you understand my desire to escape?
I’m just going through the motions, not really living, I guess. Somewhere along the way, I lost myself and I can’t seem to reach her anymore. I’m waiting for something, anything, but it’s not coming. And it’s possibly because I just don’t really care what happens.
I miss and long for something that I’m not even sure what it could be. If only it came to me, even in a dream, then maybe I could start piecing together the possibilities that my life could be. I know someone would say it’s up to me to do that in a conscious state, that I shouldn’t wait for something to happen. But I still exist in spite of everything that wants me dead and gone. But that’s it, I just exist. I don’t believe I’m important; what I do or say doesn’t matter like I wish it would- like I wish I did.
But don’t worry, I won’t check out of this world. There’s no point in doing so; the fear of the unknown keeps me away from taking my own life. At least alive, I see the life I live in front of me. I’m still not curious enough to know what happens after our time here on earth is up. I avoid the thought. Once upon a time, all I wanted was to die. I’m not searching for a way out anymore.
I’ll just keep walking the earth in this novocaine-numb state. What could possibly go wrong more than it already has?