Sometimes I don’t know why I have this blog, it’s just not something I’ve been able to be consistent with, no matter what I want to do, no matter how hard I try. Do you ever feel like you aren’t passionate enough about something to actually be doing it?
I don’t know how much of this is my depression talking, but I’m feeling that way now. I see how passionate other people are and I feel broken. I feel like I’m incapable of being passionate about anything. Of feeling those emotions.
I lack motivation. I lack the will to do things. I try to write and I just start to wither at the thought of creating. I try to speak about what’s got me so frustrated and all I can come up with is “It doesn’t matter, I’m fine, leave me alone.”
I feel like I’m fighting a monster, and that monster is me. I don’t laugh like I wish I could. I don’t sing and dance. I don’t take joy out of most anything. I feel like I miss the beauty in the world.
The only reason I keep trying is that once every while I get passionate for just a little bit. Last Christmas it was about C.S. Lewis. A little before that I had this strange obsession with Alexandre Dumas and the Three Musketeers. Myart takes over for a few hours once in a while. My writing too. But, most of the time I feel like I’ll never experience those things again, until I do.
I feel broken until I don’t.
Sometimes the brokenness is barely noticeable and I can almost convince myself that it isn’t there. That I’m just another cog in the machine. I feel two dimensional, but at least I don’t feel broken, I don’t feel like something is missing.
I live for the bursts of passion that spark through my life.
They’re like an engine that won’t quite catch. I cough and choke, and sputter and try to get all the pistons and spark plugs working as one, firing together. Striving for that glorious rumble that signals the journey’s start.