Pointless

I’m not going to call what I’m feeling depression because I haven’t been diagnosed by someone that has any authority to, but I don’t feel how I used to.  I don’t feel inspired to do things the way that I can so vividly remember having been.  I don’t know why.  Nothing’s changed externally.  By all accounts, I should feel no different, but still, I feel this sadness inside of me that I cannot explain.  I’m not suicidal.  I don’t want to stop living.  There’s so much more in this world that I still want to experience, but at the same time, I don’t feel like doing anything.  I hold out hope that this will pass.  I’ve felt like this before and it has always gone away before, but with that knowledge, I know that it’ll always be right around the corner waiting for me no matter what.  I can’t fight it off.  I just have to sit there and let it beat me until it gets bored and leaves, but I know that it leaving is only a break for it.  At any moment it could resume its constant torture.  All I can do is try to keep living the way that I was when it wasn’t there, but it only produces a cheap imitation.  I’m sure someone will notice it eventually, but I don’t know.  Maybe they won’t, and I just notice because I know the way that I should be.  Maybe they have noticed and have chosen to not do anything.  I don’t think I even want help.  They couldn’t help if they tried, honestly, but knowing that they were trying would mean something.  I don’t know if I would try.  I could say that maybe I don’t understand what it’s like or what to do, but that’s a lie.  I know more than I can even express of what it’s like, but in the end, I might just be too selfish to concern myself with the whole thing.  Maybe I wouldn’t even notice because I’d be too concerned with myself.  Maybe that’s what it is.  Maybe everyone is too busy paying attention to themselves to see the way that I am.  I can’t even blame them.  I know that I’m no better.  Maybe this whole thing was just a way to justify my own selfishness, or maybe it was a cry for pity.  I don’t know, and I don’t think it’d change anything if I did.  I really just know that I hate myself sometimes.

Author: Jackson Palmer

Jackson Palmer is a student studying literature at the Mississippi School of the Arts. He hopes to use the education he obtains there to write novels, short stories, poetry, and scripts for movies, television, and theater productions. Additionally, he would like to write within a number of genres such as comedy, drama, horror, etc. Some of his favorite writers and influences include Billy Joel, John Steinbeck, and Dan Harmon. He hopes to explore concepts and systems of thought such as existentialism, nihilism, and fulfillment within his writing. He would like to thank you visiting his blog and hopefully reading his work. View all posts by Jackson Palmer