My Fear

Is that my words will fall into an abyss of nothingness created out of so muchness. When there is saturation, there is a loss of signal. What is the point of all these words? The volumes and volumes of discourse with myself, within myself. I fear that my voice will drown in this world of clamouring others.

Who even is the entity behind this?

For what am I? Merely a construct.

I am not anything in a tangible sense: I am a set of conditioned responses, genetic predispositions; I have roles and relationships. But there is no material "I" behind these eyes.

Special relativity tells me that the faster I move, the slower time will take to pass. And indeed I hurry about in a frenzy, frantic and anxious, trying to get THERE as fast as possible (wherever THERE is, for I haven't the slightest clue) in the effort to prolong time. Yet paradoxically, I feel like I am at a standstill, static and unmoving. And I have in actual fact lost sense of time, unable to follow a train of thought because it merely seems like an exercise in circularity.

It's the same thoughts and the same things and the same people. And it's futile to seek novelty because the reward is so transient and fleeting.

I wash my hands of it all, I want nothing to do with it. I cannot handle the weight and responsibility of friendship.

Fundamentally, I am alone.

It is the discarding, the detachment, that cuts deep. But numbness is a blanket of protection. Relationships are kept on a superficial level despite the illusion and fallacy of a deep and meaningful bond; they are just meaningless ways to hide and stifle the undeniable and omnipresent emptiness and loneliness that is a fundamental tenet of being human.

My problem is that I fall in love with the romanticisms and idealised versions of things, and therefore I always remain unsatisfied and unfulfilled because I am frustrated with the limitations of reality.