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photo © 2010 marc falardeau | more info (via: Wylio)

My heart feels empty, like an empty vessel, waiting, just waiting for guidance or approval, or both. And fulfillment, as in waiting for something cosmic to fill it's painful emptiness. My heart aches at the reality of  this existential solitude. My living experience is my own ~ mine alone and no one else's. The fact the some things ~ lofty temptations, disjointed feelings and incomprehensible thoughts ~ are mine alone to bear fills me with a cavernous sort of loneliness. I sometimes catch myself longing for the old life ~ a life lived only for the next reefer. And sad as this thought feels, the fact that I've had it renders me even more sad. My heart feels confused about where it's loyalties should lie. That leaves it feeling wretched ... ungrateful and wretched. I feel unworthy, and somewhat unreal. And sometimes, even purposeless. I tell myself that, this too shall pass. And so, I do nothing to drown out this disconcerting emotional thinking. And I just wait. And I just hope. For my self to return.