I have been living through days when nothing has been touching my heart. Life is expanding horizontally and my days are filled out somehow, but there is no direction, no vivacity. What's more, I am feeling complacent about it. I just don't want to think about a destination. Is this what is called growing up- when the spark in your eyes, the fire in your belly, the dream in your heart slowly dies away beneath the ashes of reality?
At night there is heaviness in the heart. All the things that need to be done but have not been done yet crowd out the vestiges of dreams and I fall into fitful sleep, telling myself I would be "good" from tomorrow. But what is being good? And for what? I don't know, I don't ask. I just resolve knowing fully well that the next day I will start slipping from it. It feels good at the time - to make a resolve - so I do it and sleep.
Where are the words in all this - all those emotions, the tenderness, the happiness? All that I thought was the juice of my life is buried under a thick, viscous placidity. I am so far from myself that when I read through my own writing, I feel I am watching a stranger. Full of fiery passion, but still a stranger. Will I be able to find myself? Will I be shaken out of this stupor? I don't know, but I hope so. One way or the other may this equilibrium be broken!