I feel the full futility of writing. Writing this blog, writing in general. It is not going to happen. I am not an artist. I have no idea on expressing myself. At some point what you’re to do in life is supposed to find you. Nothing has found me. That friend. That woman. That job. I’m watching what always happens. The hobby. The thing I can enjoy and do reasonably well fall farther and farther into the background. My dreams are faded so that I can hardly make out the outlines. I can see everything ahead. Like I’m this ship that is drifting on the ocean and I’m going through the mists and all I see are the unhappy typing of future posts. The rejection letters.The unanswered queries. The empty phrases meant to keep me going and make me feel better. The pills. The pills. Serotonin dropping. Serotonin rising. Tears. Mild mania at an unrealistic idea that I grab onto quickly without full thought, as it just makes sense at the time. Then the ship goes on and I see past that. The deflation. The staring at the ceiling in the dark. Waiting for something to get me out of bed. I have passed these shores before. These derelict and half sunken ships in the misty waters. I know I will pass them again and again. I don’t think I’ll live long. Something, someone will kill me. Because, I am going crazy. The repetition is rattling me. The seeing through people. The blandness of my life. My inability to have proper fun. To smile genuinely. This maze. This brain. My mind will not let me have peace. I will die or I will lose my mind. I will be in a hospital. Any day now.