Dread and Nausea

Something’s shifted within me.

I am disconnected from my environment. I reach out but I’m unable to touch anything. I am wrapped in a bubble, a dispassionate cocoon. No one can feel me, or feel the way I feel. Everytime I struggle and writhe within my powerless existence, failing to break through the bubble, my pulse quickens, I feel constricted, nauseous.

I am adrift, waves move me deeper into the ocean. Unchained, from all that I know, of dry land and laughter, the company of men, and their pointless revelry.

It’s the darkness of the ocean that beckons me, shielding me from the reality I have constructed. I feel safe in my solitude, the bubble stroking me into submission. I am rudderless. The world buzzes around me, passing by me, ignorant of their own existence, and I watch, unblinking, judging. I’m curious to know how they are happy in their futile existence. Blissfully unaware of who they are.

The darkness beckons me again. I sink. I thrash and resurface, fighting to breathe, to fill the void inside my lungs. Breathing is pointless. All choices are equivalent. I’m unable to change, to influence my environment, trapped within my very own circumstance, helpless.

Is this what life is about, an endless struggle against the anguish of existence? Creating and solving problems of our own, finding comfort and meaning in the sorrow of ours personalised, pedestalized angst?

But, what’s the point?

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Black Hole Sun, won’t you come, and wash away the Rain?