Do you ever have one of these days where life feels like a pointless exercise in the never-ending struggle to find meaning? Well I was having one of those weeks. I usually jump out of bed with purpose when my alarm goes off, but at the height of my depressive spell, I’d spend a good 10 minutes staring at my ceiling, willing myself to get up. I know that life, however meaningless it sometimes gets, would be infinitely worse if I ditched work and stay burrowed under my blankets. But there has to be a more compelling reason to make it out of bed other than the fear of disappointing your coworkers and not wanting deadlines to pile up.
I don’t know why I sometimes I feel this way, and I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to understand why. All I know it keeps visiting me, the feeling that each day is another stage to play out the empty charade that is my existence, and I keep charade-ing on in the hopes that one day, I will wake up feeling like running towards life and love and meaning with arms wide open.