Perhaps Just One More….

I hate that I feel I can’t write anymore because I stopped writing letters to you. It’s not your problem and I need to get over it. You do not have to be my audience. Maybe I should start again. Limited. Like once a week. Maybe. Maybe that is a horrible idea. I just need a pen pal other than myself. I write well to myself but I write better with an audience. I wrote brilliant letters when I wrote you. At least, I thought so. It was as if each word mattered despite my long winded monologues. I want that feeling back. I want to be able to write without thinking. I can’t trick myself on this one. I know whether my intent is to send it or not. So perhaps if I just write one….I am mad. I must be mad. Perhaps this is okay though. Perhaps this is what keeps me alive. Perhaps this makes for a romantic life. Perhaps you miss my letters. Perhaps it really doesn’t matter. I guess in my head this is dumb either way. Somehow that makes me smile though. Somehow it makes want to write just one more letter….
I find that I sleep more than I am awake. I do not have an answer for this. I assume it is because I enjoy the dream world. My form of escapism. I have been thinking of late though that this is not how I want to live my life. If It is depression I am unsure. I only remember always wanting to live in my head. I thought to myself on my commute to work that I spend more time in that world then this world. I suppose this could be because I am goalless. I have been searching for purpose the last few weeks. I just am unsure where to find it. I went to the doctor last week. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to return to medication. The medication that had always worked for me in the past and at the very least kept me from sleeping in such large chunks of time. Perhaps I have chronic fatigue syndrome. I don’t know. I don’t care. The problem is the least concerning…I am more interested in the solution.
I have no real complaints in life but the one complaint that I have is the worst complaint a person could have. Not having purpose. That is my complaint. I have no purpose. I don’t even know where to begin to find purpose either. I sit here at work and feel imprisoned. I have nothing to do. It is a waste of my time. There is no purpose here. Letter just came that we are being defaulted on for not answering a complaint. Even though it is not my fault I am sure to be blamed. This will be tomorrow’s dreadful problem. But it doesn’t phase me.

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