Ennui, a stupid word for a stupid feeling that I for some reason can't stop feeling. I like the way the word looks but hate the way it sounds, the way it rests upon my tongue, ennui ennui ennui, feeling unfinished, it feels incomplete and unsatisfying, which I suppose is appropriate for how I'm feeling.
I turn 21 in exactly one month so it shouldn't come as much of a surprise to me that I'm going through a crisis but alas I am gobsmacked once again. The fact that I experience the same sort of ebbs and flows as everyone else is nothing short of vile. I keep thinking that maybe there's a chance I won't have to go through the same shit everyone else does. Once upon a time I would have thought it was magical. Not sure what happened, or when it did, but suddenly mundanity wasn't magical anymore unless I was getting something done. You might be thinking it's the typical American college blues. You would be wrong because I don't attend college nor do I pursue anything vehemently enough to get even close to the experience. I guess that's what I mean to talk about. When the hell am I going to experience anything deeper than a backyard kiddie-pool? A friendship that doesn't last precisely one year, every time like a curse, that shatters the second of conflict? A job I don't get sick of in one month? A passion that actually becomes a part of my life and not just a season?
I feel like an angry and shut-in teenager waiting for my next chance to act out just for the sake of feeling something, for the sake of seeing that my actions actually do have consequences and therefore I am a real person in a real world and not a figment of my own imagination that's fragile to the slightest influence, and that would be okay if I was still a teenager, but I'm not. Now it's just embarrassing.
"What did you do on the weekend?" Nothing. "Have any plans for your 21st?" No. "Talked to your friends lately?" No. "Wow, do you anything going on?" You guessed it! No.
Maybe I'm just dramatic and maybe I'm just on my period and maybe all I need is to sit down with a cup of tea in the morning and read a good book and maybe everything will be okay, and it will be, at least until I have to stop and drag myself out of my own reverie and realize that I still hate everything unless I'm immersed in something. I read Lost Lambs by Madeline Cash recently and maybe I'm like Harper, just not challenging myself enough. Novels are the only things I can sink my teeth into, nothing else has the bite, feels like melted marshmallows. I want to bite and rip and chew and tear into life and feel something so deeply that I can't ignore it or shove it down. But my insides are rotting with all the sweet. The door's open and I'm too tired to try it. So no, nothing too terrible is going on. Nothing great is either.
"How's it going?"
"Well, it's going." And going and going and going and going and going and going and eventually it's going to go so far that I'll be out of time before I realize that my life left without me.