This has been happening to me more and more lately. I used to have so many ideas that I would struggle to get them all down. Now I feel drained and uninspired. I’m complacent and boring. I have the literary depth of a puddle. I’ve had some major changes in my life (I was accidentally drugged… I guess that’s something I could write about), but even that… there’s no drive to write it down…and it’s a pretty funny story… well it’s funny now.
I watch people walk by and wonder if they even feel like in they’re in a rut like this. If they ever feel like they barely exist or as alien as I feel now. I feel so separate from everyone around me. Like I have to mimic their emotions and actions to not draw attention to how strange I actually am. My mind is constantly blank. Where does creativity come from and where is it go during times like this?
Even now I’m only writing this in an attempt to kill time at work. But then at home I feel like I should be out doing more. There’s this deeply ingrained guilt in me no matter what I seem to do. This lack of mental stimulation has somehow triggered something physical in me. I’m more inclined to work out, change my appearance, things that don’t require much brain power. I’ve even been shopping more than I ever had, without much consideration for what I’m getting.
I think I may need a vacation. Or a lobotomy.