leftover angst

I miss myself. That would be a funny thought but then it resonates inside me too much like the truth.

I guess, in a way, I miss who I was. I miss that uneasy comfort and truce I had with silence, with solitude. I miss that frustrating confusion that haunts my every thought, my every sleepless moment, my every dream. Those that push me to grab on to a pen like a lifeline carving the very beat of my heart in paper. I miss the despair to cry out and not be silenced by the fading day, the yearning to be swallowed by the night yet keep my voice chanting poetry to the moon and to the vast emptiness it gives reason to. I miss the time I could still convince myself of that it was passion I felt, not just immaturity or pretense; that it was the cry of my soul that I engrave in paper, not just ordinary scribbles of half-baked and amateur tryst at writing.

Now, everything is dulled down by cold rational sense. Everything is a logical transition. Every move is caused by a rational thought process that I can’t turn off. Machine-like, devoid of emotion or passion or that vital pump of blood… what has become of me?

Yet even as I ask, I know the answers. I could always come up with one, there’s always some clear cut reasoning behind each phrase blurted out un-thought of. It’s like a talent… conveniently convincing the world even if I feel as if I’m living a lie. I could even convince myself.

The truth is I’m afraid. I am afraid of what could become of me. I am afraid of being back where I was before, of falling back and this time not being able to rise up from that depressing pit of hopelessness. That the next time I let myself go, there would be nothing left. The past was just a fraction of what I could be, what else could I become?

What in the world am I saying!?!