Why doesn't it feel good to write anymore? It's like I can't feel any interest towards characters or stories, not in reading nor in writing. Every story feels bland and insipid. I like to think that I'll write something substantial one day, but when it feels so meaningless, I don't really know if I can do it. I was thinking about the term "depression". I've never considered going to a counselor to just talk about the possibility of depression. What is she gonna tell me? That life is beautiful and blah blah. Or throw a few pills at me.
I rarely have the energy to cook anything. Our place feels remote and dark, our relationship distant, brutal in forgetting its golden past. All the work that is dumped on me makes me nervous. I think I've made a few mistakes here and there in the paperwork we had for moving to the new place. Received the keys yesterday, but I don't feel happy or anything. My thesis's deadline is fast approaching but I haven't written anything in the last month. I guess we both are depressed, only there is no cure. What is lost is lost.
"There was once a young boy. Innocent, naive and curious, he would look for any kind of adventure. He would run up the hills strewn with thin grass, bask in the smiling sunlight, listen to the rooster's crow at the break of dawn. He would climb down old wells, chase the rabbits on the plains, play hid and seek with spiders. There was once a boy, whose cackling laughter would echo in the foggy pathways of morning. There was once a boy who dreamed of going to the city and becoming a poet. But he never reached puberty. He died in an attack to his village, along with all those who would ever remember him. His face has now faded away in my memories and I wonder, was he ever real?"
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