My soul is weary.
I don’t want to write today. I don’t feel like doing anything today, really. It’s one of those beautiful, sunny days when my depression is out of sync with the weather, and I feel a sense of loss, of nostalgia, of time passing me by as I watch helplessly from the outside. The world goes on around me; I have no way, and at the same time no desire, to join. I am not a part of this world, and yet I cannot not be a part of this world. It’s all very confusing.
Days like these, I have no motivation to do or be anything; all I want is to drown in my own misery and lose myself in some fictional world where I feel safe. Where time doesn’t matter, where it’s not my life, where I don’t have to live my life. Life is happening to someone else. Life is happening to everyone else. But it isn’t happening to me.
I’m not sure what I need to get out of these ruts. Because I’m not exactly sure what is wrong with me at these times. Any other time I get depressed, I know what’s wrong, and what I can do to mitigate the feeling, if not get rid of it altogether. But these are strange times; I feel like a spirit who’s still bound to this earth but can’t figure out why or how to get unbound.
My soul is weary.
I neither want to be here nor to move on; no excitement for the future, no regrets for the past. On days like these, I am fully present in the moment, when I want to be anything but. These moments used to be reserved for hot summer days; I remember having days like these as a child, aimless, listless days, where something is missing yet at the same time not. But due to global warming and my increasing isolation, these are popping up in the winter as well.
Is this what enlightenment is? To observe the world as it is, with no judgment, no involvement, no stake in what happens. I feel nothing.
For someone who doesn’t want to write, the words sure are flowing. I suppose this is the first time I’ve tried to put this feeling into words, words decades in the making. The feeling that nothing has any meaning, that everything just is. The feeling of time standing frozen, yet swirling and rushing all around it.
I observed a half-drunken conversation once. Two people arguing about the age of souls. One argument for the birth of new souls, the other that souls are merely reborn. The first questioned, if souls are only reborn, where do the souls originate? The second person might’ve been too busy drinking to answer, I don’t recall.
My soul is weary. If there are new souls entering their first lifetime, then my soul is hopefully in its last. I don’t want to be reborn in the next lifetime.