I am filled with such a strange yet subtle discontent. Soft and slow, sort of skittering across my senses. A flickering yet constant malaise. I cannot be rid of it. It hangs over me as though a shroud of mist, all pervading and yet insubstantial. In seeking it, I find myself only further blinded in its whiteness.
It's distinct origin escapes me, yet is damage is indisputable.
I stand yet cannot find my place in standing. I move yet find myself without direction. In all manners I am stuttering, faltering, due to this flickering unease. I wonder, why it is I cannot be content. And in this discontent, I dream, falling further to this illness.
In dreaming I find simple things. Simple desires that echo simple pleasures yet harder to find. I dream of the sweet musty scent of books lined neatly in rows. Of the bitterness of tea, hot and smooth on my tongue. Of the lushness of fur against my skin and the smoothness of sheets so crisp and white. Of flowers perched by a bedside, and the sweet serenity of home. I dream of dark hair and white shirts. Of being held so tenderly. Of long days. Of laughter, high-pitched and light, and the simple companionship of unassuming friends.
I dream of tete-a-tetes and vibrant nights. Of music and magic, of art, and life.
I dream perhaps of what could be, and in dreaming feel such greater discontent. For my dreams are yet intangible things, too wispy to hold form.
My dreams are still but vapid things, yet untethered to reality. Yet I am immobile. Unable to move forward, incapable of turning back. Inconstant and bitter. In my inability, I am shamed. In my lack I am deterred. Without guidance, I flutter, fading further into inconstancy. Inconstant, I am betrayed, slighted by my own consciousness. And all the world would but point and stare, and offer me no sympathies. Yet it is not sympathy I desire, nor the verbal refuse of critiques. Those voices I carry too keenly in me still.... I want instead a path, a movement, a sign. Some semblance of normalcy in this abnormal state.
I live, yet am not living. I feel as though I am hovering over the precipice of some great crossroads. Unable to move backwards, yet too fearful to go forth. Caught between two worlds, two moments, seeped in both, yet belonging to neither, and below, yawning depths of possibilities too great to comprehend.
I wonder, is this the awkward symptom of growth? The undeniable need to continue forward, yet constrained by realities, unable and yet unwilling to see what could come? Or is it a self-imposed helplessness, borne of years of doubt and the aching need for stability?
Lost. Perhaps I am lost. Without direction. Seeking yet not finding. To blind to see the truths I would own.