I stand back from my life, watching. I see myself as this character in a movie. I am still her, but not her. I am living her life, but not living her life. I am here, but not here.
I spend more time deleting than I do creating these days. It seems I have become bored by my own story, by my own existence even. Don't get me wrong, I'm not suicidal. For the first time in my life, I do not crave death. Instead, it feels as if I'm dead already, as if all the tools I've used to define myself, all the experiences, all of the story is no longer relevant. And yet, I still feel the love and joy and grief associated with this life's story. I am still present to it, aware of it in all of its intensity, more so even. But the absurdity of it all, the bittersweetness of it all is ever present, always lingering to remind me that consciousness is the greatest gift and the greatest curse that humans possess.