What Are My Roots?

I used to know the answer to such a question: writing, reading, sleeping, thinking, long walks alone, praying, deep conversations, dreams; in other words, melancholy mixed with depth and joy(the effects, I'd say, of higher living). I was lonely, I was sad, and I was bitter quite often, yet I knew who I was and who I should have been (which is not who I was, by the way).

Now, I'm not so certain. Wait. I am certain, I'm just not as able to connect. I know it's all the same and that it is all still there, if only I would slow down or crash enough to remember how to be me (at least sometimes). My life is ensnared, or so I'd say today: at home, a set of problems entangles me; with one friend, another; with another group, yet another; and so on for every situation I find myself in.

I suppose this is what stress is. Before, I despaired over life and death. Now, I despair over the intricacies of life and of growing up. Strange: the former worries did not tax me with such strain as these ones do.

I miss the people I used to dream with. Where have the dreamers gone? Drugs enveloped some, life and the running of time, others; but what of me? Why can I not dream so happily alone as I once did with others?

Better than that: God, why have you given me no clear way to dream with others? Those I am close to lack spirit to dream, and I am slowly draining, too.