„Don’t write when you’re miserable“.

That was a kind of Prime Directive when I joined the International Youth Service, a pen-pal organization in Turku, Finland, way back when I used to go to school.
In those days, I didn’t feel too miserable, maybe only when I had to wait for so long for an answer to my letters to India, Japan or even Iran (before any of the Gulf wars). You gotta remember, in the good ol’ days of snail mail, such a letter could be waited upon for up to three weeks, even when your pal responded promptly. (Thank God for the Internet.)

In the last year, I haven’t written much.
Not only here on the blog, but also not in any journal; in fact, I didn’t talk too much about my problems even to my closest friends. Maybe not due to misery, but I couldn’t bear to rehash and relive what hurt me anymore. I simply didn’t want to.
And though that didn’t solve any of my problems, it helped me soothe a bit. Helped me build a wall to try to protect me from being hurt.
Resulting in the fact that I feel quite unemotional now. I feel reduced. Like being reduced to, let’s say 16 colours. I see things, I feel stings, but the depth is missing. I simply don’t live my life to the fullest. I experience pain, yes, but not in a sharp way. It’s a dull pain I can deal with somehow, or at least I think so. And then again, I can laugh about jokes, and I mentally recognize nice things, but there is no deep and lasting joy within me. I feel reduced, and my experienced feelings are reduced.
Reduced to 16 colours.




I am afraid to open up again because there doesn’t seem to be any inner framework anymore. There was, not too long ago; and there was even insulation, but it wore away somehow, and now all that’s left is my outer shell, like an insect’s exoskeletton, keeping what’s left of me together.
Crack it, and I will crack.

So, I’m going to carry on.
I’ve got to find things to make me feel alive again.