I’m listless and lost, and I want to say a million things, but I can’t get the words out. I can’t even form the words in my head. It’s like a blank canvas that screams for ink, but I don’t have any. Empty space that draws invisible lines on itself. Silence that roars. I’m just restless and my ideas are dried up, and I feel shriveled in the morning when I tumble out of bed, like the sleep has drained me rather than refreshed me. The years have only fed my nihlistic thoughts, so I can’t help thinking, what’s the point, anyway? Why try to find the right words when they don’t, can’t possibly, matter?
So. I drink too much coffee and say a whole lot of caffeinated nothing to a whole lot of people who don’t really want to hear it. I run circles in the city avoiding eye contact. I stare across the Delaware when I walk my dog every morning and wish for something, for anything, to happen that will clarify what the hell I am supposed to be doing here. I read the paper and my mother’s books and everything else I can find and wish for words of my own, but they just never come.