There is an emptiness within me that I cannot fill. I am paralysed by the way it makes me feel so hopeless. On a cloudy, overcast English day like today, I dress myself up in the brightest of colours - a bright red skirt, a black top embroidered with bright red flowers - trying, desperately, to brighten up the monochromatic sadness of my mood. This damn mood, this bloody mood, this pointless and useless melancholy - a waste of time. I cannot focus on what I ought to do, for why ought I to do it if I do not know its point and purpose? Why am I here? What am I doing with my life?
I keep hoping that this will pass; that my mood and emotions will stabilise and I will be back to normal. But what if I don't? What if this is the new normal? My inner logic and residual sense of reason that try to convince me what a privileged position I am in are helpless against the relentless tidal wave of these feelings that keep washing over me, beating fiercely against the steadily eroding bastion of rationality that is this receding shoreline. Soon, there will be nothing left but water, water everywhere.
I don't know what to do. I don't know how to get out of this mess. I don't know how to feel better. I don't know how to stop this urge like I have to cry but I don't know what I am crying about, what right I have to cry, why I should be sad, what is there to be sad about? Woolf was here, and so was Plath; but what does it say about me that I look up to writers who eventually killed themselves?
The most tragic part, I think, is this: I haven't the genius to back up any of this whiny, self-indulgent angst. For fuck's sake, just grow up. Just grow the fuck up.