I thought yesterday that I’ve perhaps traded deep melancholy for toil – for the drudgery of a day-to-day. I thought to myself that if I now suffer less, it’s may not be because my life is comparably better, but rather, that I’ve found a way to turn or orient myself to future… some distant date in the future.
I thought that I may no longer be so reflective, and that that was the key… I suffer less keenly because I’m preoccupied… because I’ve given myself over to some other task.
The words don’t come so easily, and I wonder who I am. I feel uncertainty looming, and I think of breaking off this exercise at the moment. The burden of seizing control… of realizing that one holds their fate in their own hands in tremendous. I suppose in some ways… or I wonder at least if I haven’t relinquished this right.
Imagine if no one but myself… if no one but myself was responsible for my own fate and the course of my life. Whether I’m subjected by this or that…
I’m not quire sure.