Stagnant.

Though I’m going through what should be considered the most exciting time of my life – the journey of youth coming toward reaching a major landmark, 18 – i feel unhealthily stagnant.

I feel as though I’m living the same day over and over again.

I feel as though I’m suspended between life and death, not alive enough to exist alone but not dead enough as to be unfeeling.

I feel as though I’m floating above the icy ocean of reality yet below the heavenly clouds of my imagination.

 

I don’t feel empty.

I feel love, I feel happiness, I feel enjoyment, I feel the highs and lows of day-day-existence

but I feel as though some majority of me is missing.

 

could it be motivation?

motivation has always been as issue with me, so to suggest that it’s missing would be a terribly late observation.

 

self-confidence?

i feel as though i refrain from trying new things not out of lack of wanting to, but lack of ample opportunity to do so in this social apocalypse we call ‘lockdown’.

 

maybe that’s it, social-ness?

maybe.

i thrive in social scenarios and without them i do feel in need of recharge. the occasional lunch with a friend or movies with my significant other generally fill the hole where that large social cavern used to be.

it doesn’t fill it to the top, not even close, but it’s satisfying enough that i’ve avoided sinking into a relapse of depression.

 

so, what could it be?

what’s missing?

 

you may have noticed something of a hiatus, it’s been 2 months and 7 days since my last blog, the longest time I’ve ever had between blogs on this website.

could it be that the feeling that something is missing is the need to write?

 

the need to write.

i’ve always felt it was my civil duty to write.

that since it was all i was good at, and the only significant skill i enjoyed improving, it was an obligation to my existence to write.

 

maybe much like the way schooling has stolen my wanting to read by forcing books down my throat and piercing words through my eyes, perhaps i’ve stolen my own wanting to write after feeling i was forced to do so (write, that is).

 

it doesn’t make sense.

it doesn’t make sense that after more than a year of letting the words flow from my fingertips across the digital page the constant stream just dries up.

i think i was angry at myself for a long time for not wanting to write. angry that i could no longer find the words after believing i was so articulate, so packed with things to say.

 

it could be a reflection of our times, i suppose, that i find no inspiration to write the way i used to; although to blame a pandemic for a lack of something to talk about would be extremely counter-intuitive, don’t you agree?

 

 

i suppose what i’m trying to tell you, dear reader, is that i no longer feel like i belong.

i no longer feel like i belong anywhere, as a matter of fact.

and i don’t have anyone to blame, not even myself, so i just feel

stagnant.

“showing no activity; dull and sluggish”

 

Mark Twain once said: “The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.”

I thought I had found out why and now that I don’t feel certain that writing is my reason any more, I feel lost.