Tell Me Why

That is all I wish to know. Why can I no longer feel as passionate as before? Why can I no longer find it in myself to care? Why can I not reach into my soul and draw out words that mirror the rawness of my being? Why?

All these questions push against my existence, forcing me to believe that without the answers to them, they remain beneath, a festering sore in my soul. And with that, I am left searching for solutions to cure me of their constant nagging. That constant need to know how to set myself free of... anything.

Yet here I am, sitting in my room with what many would like to believe to be a calm exterior. Perhaps it will be easier to believe myself "fine" and unencumbered by care. I will then be free of the "why" factor of my life. However, my very placement in this room, in this chair, desperately clawing my way out of this metaphorical stage just to know the "why" nullifies the ease of finding a solution. Ensnared by my thoughts, I continue my unfruitful search.

Here I must express my absolute anger at the idiotic suggestion of "just not caring." I don't doubt that it has worked in the past for other people, however, such is not the case here. I am not nor have I ever been those people and they have never been me. Of course it's easy to not care, but who other than a self-righteous bastard would find themselves above and beyond human care? I am certain that they are not God.

So here I continue to sit, no longer in my own room but in a wood of uncertainty and confusion. And it is there that I beseech you to tell me why.

And I'd like to bring this entry to a close with a "Happy Birthday" to my dear older brother, Kerwin. Cheers, Kuya.