LOST AND LOSING

I want to update myself on how I’m doing, honestly. I can only be frank, and none of my words will be elegiacal– but please excuse my poor words now, for I have not written in a while. I have not written anything in a while, or at least, anything I am proud of. Tossed into bins, shredded into utter obliteration are the remnants of my writing, doodles in the margins, and the beginning scrawls of something I could not finish. So much of me depends on writing. At times it can be my only source of relief as I’m able to warp time and space and craft a solace within line and ink. But I’ve stopped writing. My catalyst for literature has ended, whether abruptly or gradually, I am unsure of– it’s all been a blur. This is all I know: my fire for poetry, reading, writing, creating, has abated. I cannot do any of these things without feeling displeasure, or without scorning myself. I have lost interest in a lot of things: Watching movies, taking walks, exercising, participating in recreational events, singing; my spiritual ardor is fickle, my love in God is a question mark, I am drained of compassion and my heart is calloused with constant beatings. Even self-harm lacks its remedy, which, should be good in a sense, but with no avidity or relief brought by the hobbies and things that used to bring me joyous anticipation, I struggle to find purpose. I’ve lost libido. I’ve lost motivation to love people, and when stripped of all that grounded you, sheltered you, and made you you, it is so difficult to not quit. It feels like a game of tug-o-war, and I’m losing. My grip on the rope is tight, but my palms are sweaty and the roughness chafes my hands bright pink and hot. Right now, my feet are anchored into the sand, but depression wrenches the rope relentlessly, and my heels drag closer and closer to the white line… How easy would it be to just forfeit? To just let go? I’ve already lost, and yet I’m still losing. How horrible this brash and ruthless, pounding sadness is, and how horrible it is that it stole my joy, my identity, and the branches that brought me fire.

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