...

I feel a veritable displeasure in myself. It's a feeling that often comes out at night, in the quiet, in the dark, as I lay in bed trying to go to sleep. Stuck in that midway between consciousness and the void.

I wonder about things, and how my life has been, and I realize that I have done very little growing up. I suppose in certain measures, I've done alright for myself, but in many others, I find myself lacking. This inadequacy grips at me and I struggle with the thoughts of my own personal failures. Failures as a human, as a friend, as a son. There are many failures to speak of. You will not be privy to all of them. Most of them shall I take to my grave.

Earlier today, I reiterated my goals. Wracked my mind for any spark of inspiration or desire for the future and found none. There is nothing. Try as I might, there is nothing greeting me when I seek any further out beyond that singular goal of which I have kept a secret to all. That goal will see me riding to death's door soon enough. And therein lies another of my failures, for what is a man without a future? What is a man who seeks nothing in his path? What am I if I have no realy desires or motivation? There is nothing here for me.

Again, I find myself wondering how life must work for other people. What must it be like to have an actual desire to live? An actual goal to work towards? Some overarching story to achieve in life? If there was a book to be written about my life, it would be drab and filled with duplicate pages for the majority of the print.

There is nothing.

There is nothing.

Why am I even still here, really? Do you have an answer for me? Probably not. It is getting late.