Asking too much

Sigh, everything seems to be falling apart these last few days. I get drunk and do something not too bright, I lose motivation and momentum for my work, and now I just stood up a friend I haven't seen for almost a year simply because I was too occupied to remember.

I'm tired of playing at charades and masquerades. Maybe that showed. Strange feeling of a complete loss of enthusiasm for something I once felt so strongly for. Perhaps it was only the product of the particular circumstances of the time. Perhaps I am simply weary of warping my self to fit a role. After all, if we give up what we are, there is no longer a point. When you sharpen a point, turn it inwards and present yourself to be stabbed or spared, but the designated judge chooses instead to turn away, not even bothering to make the effort to pass judgment, what can be thought? Am I worth so little that my words, my actions are not even passable amusement?

Ah, what am I saying? Melodramatic melancholia does not suit me. Little enough does. I have often wondered why I am never quite at ease. I always feel as if there is something not quite right, something needing adjustment, some ill-fitting suit resting upon my shoulders. Nothing I do seems quite right. There is something more I need, but I cannot even crave it, for I know not what it is. Seeking it out is impossible, for there are no clues, no indication of its existence in the first place. What am I then, if there is always something missing, but I cannot even miss it? How do you miss something that does not exist? Has never existed? Is it possible to miss such a thing if it has existed in your mind, your dreams? I do not know if one can miss a dream.

I see two holes in the wing of a butterfly, and I wonder at the portent. The dust the lost parts have crumbled into are scattered in the box. Is the vacuum incomplete? Are the wings destined to only last so long as all hold their breaths? The slightest leak, disturbance, anomaly, will break everything down. Is that it? If so, am I foolish to think I might preserve whatever remains, though it be dust in the end? The dust may be little more than what it is, but the memory of what the dust used to be can linger. Perhaps I am silly to think so. Perhaps the dust came about because of the need to scatter them. Holding onto them only prevents their fulfilment. I have seen the dust of others scatter in the winds, what makes this pile different? Simply because I once wanted more of it does not mean I am not content with what it is. I am resigned to its transformation from the wings of an insect to specks of dust. It appears I have little choice in the matter. An alcohol-stained finger touched the wings, and they crumble. It is done, and apparently there is no undoing it. Well, if so, I should salvage what I can of the situation. I can only make myself abject for so long. There is a limit, a threshold that goes beyond being far lower than that of other. The threshold does not even exist. I have forced one into being in this case, and it has cost me. Since nothing has come of it, I shall now cut my losses and let it frost over. Ah, you cannot know the cost of this, for you have never listened. What do you know about me? All too little. There seems nothing for me to cling onto here. I do not, cannot blame for the lack of knowledge, but I do and can for the lack of effort. Without the thought of striving for something, the reality can rarely be accomplished. I do not claim success, but I do claim effort. Wasted though. If that is all that is, I need not reach for a retiring hand. Delving is wasted on that which does not reach back. Going through the motions is something I do professionally, and is something I recognise. If I see it, shall I not denounce it? If I feel it, shall I not reject it? If I am mistaken, shall I not be corrected? If that is too much to ask, then so is everything else.