I’ve always been a happy person.
I’ve always been brimming with joie de vivre, singing and dancing in the streets kind of happy.
And now months pass by with no joy. No satisfaction. Nothing that brings peace and comfort to my heart.
I used to be an optimistic person. I used to think the world was a fantastic place, that I would fulfill all my dreams. That I would do what I loved, or lived what I do.
But it’s been years of doing what I hate. Years of trudging along with no inner spark, nothing intrinsically motivating.
And the immense effort I put in to reach my goals – it all seems to be going nowhere. I seem doomed to decades of this miserable life, of never doing what I love and having no time to spend with the people I love.
I used to have love, and peace, and companionship. Now all I have are errands and chores and tasks and disappointments.
I never see those I love because I am busy fulfilling my obligations. Obligations which I still fall short of. Obligations I still cannot meet.
All that was rosy has turned to glass shards that cut me all around me. I live in the barren field of Langston Hughes’ poem, and endlessly stretching before me is bitter, bitter white.
I used to think God had a plan for each of us. I used to ask God to give me challenges so that I would grow. Now I don’t know what I believe that God does or doesn’t do. My strongest convictions have dissipated and I don’t know if there is meaning.
What meaning can I find in such misery? Such misery leaves me wishing for death. My life is not what I want it to be.
All I need is hope. All I need is some joy to warm my heart, some memory of what once was and what might again be.