I wish I enjoyed it.
Everything felt diversionary at best and meaningless at worst. Not always at the time, but in sum, it felt like nothing at all. Nothing inside, just empty or dead. Unfocused mind and unsettled heart.
Hate not being able to get it all out, not being able to write anything worthwhile, not finding a touchstone of peace. I know better than this, yet here I am. Pathetic, really, that one as blessed as I would wallow in nebulous self-pity. Yet here I am.
I know the feeling now. I do. It's as if I've lost something and am constantly looking around in the same places for it, unable to move on until I've found it, turning my home upside down in the relentless search.