Lately I have been feeling disenchanted.
It began as a restlessness that crept in when I wasn't looking; over time it grew, blossoming out into a greater, more devastating evil, curling its tendrils tightly around the nucleus accumbens hidden away in my skull. Like a disease it has spread far and wide through my body, blackening everything it touches.
A bullet to my prefrontal cortex would be a small mercy, but murder is frowned upon.
I feel I am withering, as if the once-ever-present ebb and flow of thoughts and observations and heartbreak within me is slowing to a devastating trickle. I used to flood, once, not too long ago. My syllables would crest over the banks of my awareness and slosh out onto the paper in great tidal waves of agony or searing joy. I remember the nights when I would leave markers to remember how far the tide had stretched its soggy fingers onto the shore, wondering what it was hunting for. What it lost that it so terribly wanted back.
The tide has receded and I sit on the banks and watch the water evaporate. My ocean is drying up beneath the blazing skepticism and malaise that have become of my sun. No more do I bask in the rays of reality, absorbing and radiating, sifting out the imperfect and the wordless. Everything is silence and my heart grows more numb with each pump. My bones ache beneath the layers of my skin and the sore remnants of muscles.
I believe I am withering and it is a slow and torturous death of the soul.