This morning when I awoke (I want to say from a strange dream, and I did have one involving biking across some kind of divide, but it would read too much like Kafka's Metamorphosis) I dreaded writing a blog post. That itself wouldn't be new. What was new was the reason why.
Previously, my problem was that I would not be able to figure out how to say what I needed to communicate. This time, I was afraid that I had nothing to say.
To be fair, I didn't feel that my nothing put me in contrast to others who knew things. I saw them all as deluded. They didn't know their nothing was nothing.
But I envied them. They were living in a dream, perhaps, but at least they had a roof over their heads. I had nothing. They had complicated systems of understanding, derived from self-evident truths, but I had lost my truths. I couldn't even be sure of that very observation.
The feeling that accompanied this was depression. It wasn't the kind where you took a pill and your mood might improve. That seemed like heading in the wrong direction. It would be like pulling the covers over my head and pretending. But, as before, even that kind of clarity wouldn't stay with me. Maybe pretending, despite how it sounded, was the correct solution. Maybe what I was calling make believe, was no more artificial than my radical self-doubt. Maybe the distinction between true and false was a fake one.
Then I had a cup of coffee, and wrote this post, as if from a distance. I was taking a scenic overlook point of view of my plight, rather than suffering through it, and that felt a lot better.
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