In several ways, I miss the person I used to be, in all my old meekness and fragility. People now tell me I am brave and strong and independent and I try very hard to be all these things. Mostly, I am okay. But when I am not I feel the strangest emptiness. When I think about it, I was never really empty the way I can be now - I was always longing for something or someone. It wasn't as much emptiness as much as a lack, I suppose.
There's nothing I really care about anymore. I try to watch films but I (mostly) get bored, even "Paris, je t'aime" cannot make me cry. I read books but I don't feel any passion towards the narrative or the characters. I'm interested, of course, but I don't care, I don't want to weep or laugh or smile because of what's going on. It's turning into winter so there aren't anymore outdoor raves and all the indoor ones I've been to got stopped by the police. I do drugs sometimes and they're annoying at worst and pass the time at best. Doing acid again seems like one of the few things I'd be interested in doing, but it's cold out and I don't know who to do it with because I want it to be a meaningful, worthwhile experience.
I have a boyfriend, but he's somewhat homeless and a junkie and getting truly emotionally involved is dangerous. Not that he knows I feel this way - I nursed him this weekend and sheltered him and made him soup because he made himself sick. But I don't say "I love you" to him and I certainly wouldn't cry if he decided that he never wanted to see me again. I mean, I long for him, and my heart would hurt if he would leave, but I wouldn't cry. I like kissing him, I like taking care of him, I like how he pulls my hair and I like his eyes so it's okay.
I've quit smoking (today marks a week, with a cheat) and I miss it - beyond the physical nicotine addiction. I miss coming home and smoking a cigarette and I miss just shutting everything out for ten minutes. Meditating doesn't really have the same effect, since I can only manage to be completely calm and clear of mind for about thirty seconds and then I start thinking again. I miss the comfort I found in smoking. I won't start again, though, because I'm too poor and I refuse to smoke Canadian cigarettes and therefore shelled out twice as much for British or German ones.
More than anything I suppose I'm nothing more than bored and therefore, boring. I longed so much "to be okay" but okay seems to be such an empty word. In the end, it's all so useless.