Dear Diary, Please Tell Me What To Do

Dear Diary, please tell me what to do. I thought it was my mind that deserted me, but it wasn't. It was my heart. I didn't care anymore. And I still don't.

I can go through the motions. In fact I make a good approximation of going through the motions. And even on slumberous nights such as these when my heart used to fill with emotion so potent, so overwhelming that I was forced to write, even then...well, those nights are gone. And I feel nothing.

And what I'm struggling against is this emptiness. It feels like, well, nothing. Like reheated soup. Salt not included. Like a sky enveloped in that murky haze, bled of colour. No rainbows, no cerulean blue. Just me. Here. Lying on my bed. Eyes wide shut. Drifting through days that make no sense, have no meaning.

You always come up against death. There is no explanation or comfort there. Just the great bourne from which there is no return. You can't look past the wall. The way is closed. And the dead, they keep their own counsel. They keep it closed.

But I'm not dead yet.

So why do I feel like I am?

Does this ever end?

Does it ever stop aching and become peaceful, sweet, serene, all right?

I'm just asking for all right.

I'm writing a letter out into the ether for my heart, if it hears me, to stop wandering around, orphaned and untethered and to come on home.