Well if I can’t remember why I picked up the pen in the first place then I’ll simply write about The Despair.
Once again this morning I was engulfed by it. It comes from the pressure to succeed; the fear of failure. I wake up and immediately I’m hit with it. It comes from the fear of wasting time, and yet I’m waiting on something. I’m worried about this and that. And I have nothing to show for it.
This fear of the floor falling out. This fear of realizing there’s no place to go. This understanding that those who came before me kept going because this wasn’t it. It’s always in the creation. This I know.
Perhaps I’ve never felt “depressed” these past several years because I felt I had nothing to lose and now I do. Trapped in Saigon but not really trapped. I choose to be here for the most part. I choose to live this way.
And you, lonely warrior-wanderer I once witnessed through young, starry eyes: I sit as you did. I write for respite as you did. I build for respite as you did.
But as I watched you fall apart I do wonder where it all leads.
As I suppose I keep avoiding the truth which deep down, I know.
I suppose that’s the remnants of hope.
Too much time, and too little. A peculiar psyche.