To know my place and flourish there.

What I was going to post today:

I am not suicidal. Wipe that thought out of your head right now.

What I am, though, is over it. Try as I might, I just can’t shake this sad feeling that I am done with this life. This existence. It’s like, as good as things are (and they are so good), I just can’t think of anything else I want out of this. In fact, when I really think about it, it’s been so long since I’ve wanted anything at all.

So I keep on keeping on, just to see where it goes. Because I guess that’s what I’ve always done: just seen where it would go. But I’m tired of that, and lately, don’t really care if it goes anywhere. And that just seems pointless. Purposeless. I’ve always done much better when I feel I have a purpose—some sort of goal in mind. But what goals are left that I care about, that I haven’t already accomplished. I can’t think of any. And that makes me feel like I’m over it. Done.

Last night was such an amazing night. Great music, great company, great conversation—a night full of warmth and inspiration. A perfect winter’s night in Manhattan, cold outside, warm inside, making solstice plans, gearing up for the holidays... Blissfully happy. And yet, these feelings persist. I wake up this morning feeling empty and aimless as ever. I’m awesome.

But then I read these words, by a dear friend:

Thank you for good friends, cold nights, hot sake and easy commutes; for deep conversation and people who care to listen. Thank you for performers who sing despite their colds to ease our hearts and lift our spirits and for bartenders who will mix you a drink no longer on the menu. Thank you for simple comforts, for complex lives and for an end in sight to a very long year.

Let’s go with that instead, shall we?