Everything feels dull. I’m obligated to do so many things that I don’t want to do. I feel like I’m whining right now and I hate that but there is no other way to put it. I don’t want to be in this city right now; I am constantly stifled by the concrete, the mess, the guilt of having so many opportunities and wasting them.
The one thing I miss the most, the one thing that might help—even if only slightly—is writing. I write these diaries and I write for school. But I don’t write for myself anymore. I went from short stories to poems about myself to poems about others to nothing. I don’t even know where to start. I could write about myself again, but for some reason that feels selfish now, and I’ve forgotten how to craft lives of other people.
I can’t tell if all of this is because I feel too much or because there is oblivion where so many of my emotions used to reside. I tell myself that it’s both, and I call it a day. ♦