For a long time now I’ve discussed a feeling of emptiness. A searching for significance, to find it in any part of the world.
And my style is sort of rough and meandering. I often contradict myself in various works, trying ideas on, seeing how they show on me.
And one which I feel I’ve bounced around with is the idea of where my feeling of meaninglessness comes from. It’s something I think upon so often because it is so incongruous with how I see myself.
You must understand that this feeling I don’t think is natural to me. This carelessness is unlike myself. I wasn’t necessarily sensitive when I was younger, but I was passionate.
I was passionate.
That was who I was, and I’ve lost that. But I wonder why. Was it the inward stillness, the solidity of my convictions which wouldn’t move with the revolving of the world? Or was it an internal lighting-drive that was strangled and suffocated within the confines of the world’s idleness and mediocrity?
Should I reassert myself? Dig my hands into the world and hammer out a sculpted perfection?
Or should I release it? Slip away from this world and this body to be reunited with a new world of perfection?
Perhaps a linear mind might think these questions are silly. That there’s no useful truth to be gained from arbitrary dialectics within abstraction, but to be honest, I’m not looking for a truthful answer, or a perfect answer, or much of any answer at all.
I just want to know what to do, or what not to do, or whatever will pour passion back into my idle heart.