This seems like something I would have posted six years ago, back when I routinely deposited my emotional vomit in my Xanga page. (That's my way of apologizing for whatever is about to spill out onto this entry.) But here I am, midway through my 20th year of living on this earth, and I am no less restless than I was when I was a quiet 10 year old, or a 14 year old with dreams too big for reality, or a 16 year old who was still afraid of kissing girls because he had been fat once, and we all know what that can do to you-- unlike times before, where I felt that my restlessness could propel me somewhere, I now feel a terrific weight of apathy suffocate my will to fight. Back in the days of Xanga, I would go on and on about how I felt depressed about things or worried about things or beleaguered by nothing at all, but at the end of each post I would end with some terrifically sentimental statement about how, despite my recent setbacks, I would triumph against that faceless foe I deemed life (or adolescence, etc.) and move closer to some nebulous concept I called "destiny." And while my hormones have stopped raging around like they once did, I still find myself on nights like this one with a feeling of restlessness so deep I almost think it will consume me and compress my being into utter annihilation. (Dramatic, huh?) But I do not seek melodrama. The thing that troubles me is not my moodiness, but rather my lack of it. I appear completely nonplussed at this bouts of frustration; where they once yielded great bursts of creativity, they now putter out like a weak flame placed in a rainstorm. They once produced pages of a novel, now they don't even so much as whisper to world. What's worst about all this is that I ache for creative output. But because of my odd suppressed self, nothing comes out when I sit down to write. Nothing happens when I stop and try to think. There was a glorious time where I could lose myself in my own thoughts, and before I knew it I would be so deep in my dreams that I could hardly get out. Though I know it produced some real rubbish (like my Xanga entries, for instance), it also brought me simple pleasures and profound progress. I don't want numbness to become my new pattern from which to hew a life.
I need something to wake me up.