The world has moved on…and left me behind.
(Is this how elves feel? This sorrow of misplacement and yearning for something eternal and unchanging?)
my golden leaves shall fade and fall through branching years
though sweet the song, yet sweeter still shall be the tears
the night must come, the shadows grow, the dark descend
and all we love and all we know must reach an end…
I’m a creature of words, and the world prefers images. I want depth and independence and creativity and true bonds of friendship…but this is a socially networked world; none of those things are doable. Hard work doesn’t count; upvotes and favourites and followers do. I’m not sure what the point of working my fingers to the bone really is, in the end. My own satisfaction? But I’m not satisfied…
Misplaced. Displaced. If not dispossessed.
I wouldn’t mind losing my mind completely, if it meant I wasn’t aware of how hollow and lonely the new age is, and how there’s no place for me in it. I really wouldn’t. Let me go completely mad and be trapped in a bubble world of my own creation, where all I need to be happy is magic and myself. “Interaction” is just a drug, really — anything that releases oxytocin and dopamine in the brain in that way is literally a drug. It’s rewired my brain to think that the only way things are real is if someone else validates them. Like any pill or potion or chemical.
Unfortunately, I’ve always had an addictive personality, to my sorrow.
But I’m not sure how much longer I can keep seeking this drug in a world that I don’t belong in.
What time are we upon,
and where do I belong?
(I’m sure a lot of this is just depression talking…and depression is a liar. But knowing that on an intellectual level doesn’t stop the low, lost feelings…)