I am a fire. Not a fire of rage, or of malice, but a flame nonetheless.
Most of the time, I am an engine. Contained, with a small billow of steam the only indication of my machinery. I move, functional, useful. It’s all I should need to be.
Some days, I burn over. I feel hate, misery, every pain within me. An unjustified feeling of injustice. I feel alone in these emotions, that I am the only one carrying this burden. My ego tells me I’m the only one smart enough to parse and verbalize these feelings, that I’m somehow superior. Something else tells me that I’m broken, a slave to the winds of emotion. At least I’m a willing slave, content in captivity with full knowledge thereof. It feels good, good to give in and feel. I’ve tried to resist for so long.
Other days, the fire dies. There’s nothing left to fuel it. I just feel checked out. There’s no end in sight, no goal. Short-term hedonism doesn’t interest me, and every step feels like herculean agony. Nothing seems worth doing. Not in any depressed, self-loathing way, but a complete lack of direction. Why work towards anything? I have no one to impress. To be a better version of myself? Why? What would be the point?
I can’t be the only person who feels this way. I’ve tried to talk to people, to ask open questions for any indication of other people’s internal struggles. Nothing, not a spark behind their eyes. Either unwilling to share, unwilling to acknowledge themselves, or simply unwilling to empathize. I’m done with fair-weather friendships and surface-level skimming. I say what I think, yet that’s not enough.
I’m tired, utterly alone, and I have 70 years to go.