lost

The last day of the first moon.

I haven't written like this for quite some time--writing without a goal or reason. Or maybe there is, but that reason remains to be discovered, and I am just again that lost kid wandering along some path, somewhere, looking for something interesting in the grass.

I'm tired of responsibility, of having to do this, do that. I actually have some pending: a writing job, a guide, report on Monday, a small skit tomorrow. Yet like all past nights I think I won't find comfort in accomplishing anything that the world deems important. And I'm actually frustrated at how all the things I used to do and enjoy became just tasks in themselves, telling myself that I'd be happy if I do that when I'm only half-pleased.

Even writing, used to be my release, became just a task. And like a suicidal bitch or one of those riding the emo trend I figuratively slash and slash until I bleed. Hey, I have a masochist streak. Or this feels like the time that my mom went emo-ish. Like mother like daughter, people say. I'd hate to go down that path, but I think I am, at least in this aspect.

I hate this despair that pulls me under, rendering me incoherent. May the muse come upon me again; I cling on to a thread from her dress and crumbs from her pocket.