Dread

To feel. I can't feel. I don't feel. Why not? What am i missing? What is gone? Is it a sense of self or is it simply the ecstatic hormonal teenage years that are gone? I don't know. I still feel it inside me. I have it inside me still. But i don't know how to take it out. Maybe it's me, maybe i'm the one shutting it down. And if so, why? Why am i shutting down what i know is something beautiful? What i know, that makes me, me? I've tried doing every single thing. I did. Conversing with old and new friends about life, relationships and feelings themselves. I've tried listening to old songs that made me feel that cosmic existential dread. But nothing. Only a couple words, couple poems. Nothing else than that. Why not? Is it supposed to be like this? Like, i'm grateful, for everything. I have a home, food, a great job. I don't worry about the simplicity of survival anymore. I've got two beautiful souls, beautiful cats living with me. They share this house with me, they share this life with me. Well, that's not entirely true, it wasn't me. I know who i was, who i used to be at least. I wrote poems that i felt a lot more than the ones i feel now. They had feeling, they had purpose. They were not forced to exist. And another question takes the spotlight. Is it so bad? Existing forcefully? Does it make it any less beautiful? I do not know. Yet, anyway. I don't know what's to come, i don't know.. Maybe i do know what's to come. I got everything planned. For the material world. Nothing in the inside though. Absolutely nothing. Sure, i felt bad, for about a week. After that, i completely gave up and i felt relieved. But i still cared and wondered. And i wanted those feelings, those desires. And i also wanted the conradicting ones too, ever so desperately. I know that it's not fair for me to expect that. Why? Why is it not fair? Because i don't know who i am right now. I am at a loss. I know who i was, which i really liked. The man who could write powerful things, the man who could feel. I still feel, from time to time. For example, tonight i had a horrible headhache. I got out of the bathroom and i looked at my cat and i've said "i'm in so much pain, love me." He hadn't licked my face in almost a month now. So i lay beside him and he licked my face. For almost 10 minutes. It made me feel better. I actually felt the connection there. It felt good, it felt sincere, it felt real. I feel that so rarely these days. I can't help but wonder if it's me or the things around me, is the issue? Is it wrong to continue without that passion? Is that what is needed or is it the care, the thoughts and the wishes that matters? If it is, wouldn't it be better to let go? I can't be a reminder of the pain. I should be the absolution, the redemption. Yet i am only my own sorrow. A sorrow for what, exactly? These questions just fucking go on and on and on and on and on without a fucking end. I feel fucking awful when i don't think about these questions. Because that's what i used to do all the time. I used to think, read, feel. And again back to the question, is it me or is it the things around me? Am i the problem or am i not living the life i should? I am grateful for the things i have. But if i was truly grateful it'd be enough. Is it not enough because i'm not actually grateful or is it not enough just because it's not enough? I want more. I want a better life. I want sunlight. I want. I want a desire. I want to feel. I want to feel. I can keep rambling on and on but part of me believes that it's not gonna make any difference and the other part of me believes that even writing these is making a difference. Yet again, i do not know. I am at a loss. There's nothing anchoring me down. 

You shall not wither under the sun,
You were not born to slither,
You shall not burn through the grass,
You were not made for the endings.

You are now almost a century,
You were not made to move quickly,
Age, wither and slither if you will,
Time shall flow despite your will.

Burn, destroy when it is time,
Feel it in the air, when it is done,
You will not see what you have become,
But you will hear cries of time, gone.

You will live and you will die,
Under the ever-growing sun,
A yellow beast raging by,
You will live and you will die.

You shall hear all who have tried,
As you have many a time,
To wither and die under the sun,
For naught, they have died.

You will not feel the grasp of life,
It will take you and go on by,
You shall wake to eternal life,
A never-ending tempting lie.

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