Why?

It's been a while since I've written, and it's been a downward spiral all the way. The beauty of life seems to dwindle before my eyes, every waking moment. It's still there, it's right in front of me. But it fades, as though a filter has been shed upon everything in existence. Or perhaps it's me, shrouded in a veil I've become all too familiar with.

While I'm away from home for studies, I now have my own room. A little sanctuary to call my own, although it often doubles as a jail cell. It's small, and cozy, and has a large bay window facing the backyard. It is cold in my room because of the window, but I do not mind at all, for the view makes up for much of it. The backyard is large, with a patio deck and stairs leading to a lower level, stairs that run adjacent to the mini-waterfall. There is a run-down shed in the corner of the yard, red and wooden. A family of skunks lived in there for a short time, until the entrance was blocked. Who knows if they're still there now- I suspect that they are. There are trees and bushes and flowers in the yard. The autumn leaves have turned crisp and have fallen. At one point, they were vibrant colours of red, orange, yellow and gold. Or maybe they still are, and it is only my vision that has dulled their bright hues to a subdued brown. Before my window stands one lone Japanese Maple tree. Its leaves have turned all shades of scarlett, and on clear days, I am allowed the sight of bright red leaves against a pure blue sky. The entire backyard is unkempt and wild, beautiful in its natural way. Sometimes, I wonder if it is not the room that is my solace, but the view of the outside world.

As the seasons turn from Summer to Autumn, and then Autumn to Winter, my outlook on life turns also from a content existentialism to something that resembles nihilism more and more each day. What am I doing, why am I doing it? What should I be doing- or rather, why should I be doing it? It becomes more and more difficult each passing day to wake up, to drag myself out of my bed by the few remaining strands of moral obligation, and to get about with my day. The days march on meaninglessly, sometimes passing quickly, and other times streaming along with the viscosity of molasses. Either way, they fall one by one, simply, quietly, like the leaves that drift silently to the ground during October. Why do I bother waking each and every morning? It is as though I am being forced to paint without inspiration.

I don't know what it is that keeps me going. I feel restless, like I need to continue moving. I feel homeless, like there isn't a niche for me in the world. I feel crowded, as though I require more space and time alone. And I feel lonely, as though there is not a soul in the world compatible to my own. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, the question at the end of the day still remains the same.