gazing, longingly, toward something

Their house is filled with great light and little enchanting tableaux, and many many rooms. I loved taking pictures there.

So why is it that despite the pleasure I can take in certain things, when it passes, I am left with this horrible horrible feeling of emptiness, one that is getting so overwhelming sometimes that I can hardly stand it? My well-intentioned friends tell me to go back to the therapist, and it seems useful. That is, it does until I start to think that, no matter how many times I go over the past, no matter how many useful litanies I chant to myself about my value and my worth and the people who care about me and who needs me and what I have accomplished...nothing makes more than the slightest moment of peace. That is why, now, sitting here, I feel that my existence is a sentence of some kind. I would be better off if I were someone else.

Today I thought about how I should go somewhere, take a trip, try to find a nice place to be, and then I thought that it does not matter, because wherever I am, I still feel the same. No change of location, no new setting, will change my brain.

Sorry to be so fatalistic and down. I am just being honest, because if I can't be honest here, writing this blog, I can't be honest anywhere. And face it: there are many situations and places that I find myself in that I can't be honest. It would give too much away.