Losing every creative bone by the minute, I come tantalizingly close to existentialism. I don’t know if its bravery to stare right into it or to chide at it by giving it the name of boredom. I keep writing in my own head but everything seems to disappear behind a cloudy memory. What are daydreams but self-guided hallucinations? My fingertips move too often, a Parkinsonian tragedy for the pen that I never even hold anymore. The sun tells me to calm down and I oblige and the world seems still, even if it is for a fleeting moment. Peace feels like it’s on the run, a prisoner of its own device. I try to find meaning in this bizarre bulky world and in my foolishly charming attempts, all that happens is spectacular failure. Every forgettable indie song becomes an anthem for my coming of age, an event that surely has surpassed me by now but I keep waiting for it to happen, I cling to it like it’s the only thing I know and seek and need. Where exactly am I stuck in the age continuum? Somewhere between being a teenager for the first time and being an adult for the last time. It’s not a crisis for the early 20s, there aren’t enough wine bottles around to call it that. Yet. To feel just doesn’t seem like it’s enough anymore. How is one to feel without experiencing anything? Everything I feel seems to be an out of body sensation that I observe as an outsider. Am I really feeling it? Or am I just thinking that I am feeling it? Either way, it is overwhelming. I feel like I’m not emotionally equipped to handle the kind of emotions that I face. What amazes me though, is how empty my spirit feels despite facing all these overflowing emotions. Is there a way out of this? I really don’t know. But perhaps, picking up the pen is a start.