There is a restlessness about me coupled with a listlessness that I cannot describe. I am filled with a longing for something definable and at the same time nebulous, something that I can more feel than transmute into tangible words. And this very same something fills me with a longing, and alternately, a depression. I can almost touch it, yet it seems unattainable, like that giant red moon. It is so close you can jump up and smack it, but you know you cannot no matter how hard you launched yourself into the air. That is how it feels. It manifests itself as a growing impatience with myself and with those around me, a melancholy that seems to cloak everything around me, colouring it a subtle grey.
The texture of my reality seems to have changed, from a velvet softness that intimated endless possibilities to an inflexible and rough leather that whispers of the pointlessness of life. I am less than a week from clocking another year. I stopped looking forward to birthdays. They are a grim reminder of the illusion of time. Also, I have been told of four deaths, inexplicable meaningless losses of young vibrant lives. I knew these people, albeit to a small degree, people that for a time were part of the texture of a past reality, people that could have possibly remained part of the fabric of my present reality. My skin turns cold. I have lost something, I have been left bereft, floundering in a dark and endless vacuum. Time has stood still. Time has sped up. I have been left unbalanced, shaken, tossed about by an irreverent world. Regaining a rhythm close to normalcy might not be so simple this time.