I think I am suffering from some pretty severe Ennui; or as dictionary.com says: A feeling of utter weariness and discontent resulting from satiety or lack of interest; boredom.
I have no true reason to be unhappy. Not really. But then I think of all these things. Like how I never go out. How I haven't been dancing in years. YEARS. A thing that brought light to my nights, spring in my step, made me feel powerful and beautiful. Gone now.
I wish I wrote more too. But I think of why I write. WHY. What an odd question for me. I enjoy telling stories. I do. But the crux about telling stories is that you have to have someone to tell them to, don't you? And who am I going to tell these tales to? It is hard to get motivated about something no one really gives two shits about, isn't it?
I want a dog. I need more money. I wish I had a real date in the past seven years. I wish I had friends here. People to talk to, hang out with, get coffee, see a girly movie, do make-up, play games, anything with. I wish I was back in New York on Reilly Road in a house that is no longer mine. I wish I could lose this pesky 15-lb extra I had gained. I wish my eyes stopped getting worse. I wish there were no bugs in my apartment. I wish I had a bed frame. I wish I slept better, had better dreams, could lucid dream, had another dream about flying at the very least. I hate dreaming about failure.
I'm sort of finding it difficult to muster a real smile. I feel like every one I have is sort of forced, and that someone, anyone, when they look into my eyes when I offer that plastic grin will just know and call me out and put me on the spot. Sometimes I kind of just cry a little for no good reason other then its actually something I can feel.
Not sure why I'm writing this on here. Probably because all of this would have had my wrist aching if I had used a paper journal. Though I love love love paper journals, can't get enough of them.