Lately, I've been feeling very numb to everything around me. Nothing really matters anymore, and I think I'm just too stupid to care. I don't care about hot chicks anymore. I don't care about starting up a career in movies anymore. Hell I go to the gym throw in an episode of "Entourage" and watch people reaching for the brass ring while being surrounded by the beautiful people of Hollywood. I don't fucking care. Nor, does it bother me that I don't fucking care. Well, I guess it kinda' bothers me that I don't care, but at the same time...I've got no real anger for it. All I can feel now is a faint tinge of who I was before.
I think there's going to come a time in your life where these types of feelings and memories start to fade. I wasn't convinced that it would happen before I turned 40. But I'm sure my drinking had a lot to do with dulling my emotions. Emotions are shitty things. Until they are taken away. I sense that most people function on a lot of emotion. Live for emotion. That's the stuff that hope is made of. I'm really not invested into it anymore. I think I should feel something. But I don't.
I suppose people would call this depression. I dunno. I think in the midst of it all, I don't feel depressed. Just...blah. Everything is blah. And I've lost some equilibrium. I'm in a fog. And it's a bummer, because I kinda' wanna feel something again. Remember the movie "Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind." When his memories are being erased, he clings onto them the best he can. I can see where that comes from now. I feel that each day a different memory fades, and I know I'm suppose to feel something, but I don't. Which causes feelings of emptiness.
The other day, I started up on a feature script I'd had written roughly (and ironically) 40 pages of. Then I just stopped. I went back to read the last page. And I forgot why I stopped or what I felt like as I was writing. It just went dead. I read back to what I wrote, and for the life of me...have NO idea what was the original spark of interest that would have me write 40 pages. I felt...maybe some...excitement. But none exists now. It's kinda' dark. And re-visiting now, I felt almost as if to re-purpose it for how I'm feeling now. No es bueno. What I got was just a hollow shell of writing. No energy, effort or drive. Almost as if I knew the mechanics of writing, can piece letters together for words. But zero...absolutely zero heart. I'm not sure if this is the norm for now on, but it really sucks. And I do hope that somewhere out there others may read this and realize that if they feel the same way, they aren't alone. What was the purpose of life? What questions did I need answered? Why start something only to have it fade out? These are all things at the back half of life, I may need to probe. For the time being, I'll keep making art. Maybe that will cure some of the emptiness.
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