Why are my thoughts so mundane and typical?
I don't care for living as an un-creative, stifled human, and it's certainly not what I wish to be. Yet that fate has come upon me and instead of detesting it, fighting against it, and denying it, by boring nature has more or less accepted it. Wherefore art thou, self, who once wrote nonsense stories and saw them to completion? Where have you hidden your notes, your heartfelt, foolish, but valuable vignettes; your ability to run at whim, your uncanny ability to startle when you laugh?
Granted, all of those things, when actually within my life, needed some reigning in, and I certainly couldn't have dealt with all the emotional darkness which filled the time between my miniature periods of pseudo-creativity. Yet I still miss them. Old me, set apart from others, says that I have betrayed myself and am foolish for not seeking the parts of myself so integral to my sustained well-being. New, practical me says that all lose those childish aspects and learn how to passably enjoy life without the imaginative doings of childhood.
I don't want to be a child, and I know I must develop emotional and mental well-being. Yet I see that life is bleak, too, when things are without surprise, without joy, without a childish wonder at people and places and circumstances.
Another part of me, too, knows that the accusations made by my boyfriend are right: I am on repeat; I have visited this topic time and time again and made no real progress. That, too, dissuades me: is he right? Is life..... That? Is it?...