Frigid

I miss going out. And not just going out, but going out and getting hammered, going out to while away the night without concern, without care.  But I haven't gone out, there's nowhere to go anymore.  There's nothing to do.  Am I getting old, or maybe just too old for my age?  Have I been too preoccuppied, with things seeminly more important, more urgent and more pertinent in life. I miss the kind of freedom that you feel when you're out there getting blasted for no reason, in a club dancing or even just swaying to the music.

I think that there's a deeper need that's brooding behind everything, that what I feel is nothing but a symptom.  Like a fatal disease that gives you tremors.  Is it boredom?  Yes, I'm bored on certain days, but overall everything's quite dandy.  Sometimes a little too dandy.  I've reached a plateau with no end in sight.  Nothing excites me anymore.  Sometimes I try something new but I just learn too damn quickly.  Everything is too easy. Nothing challenges me anymore.

Fact is, I've long been sick with this disinterest, this great apathy, this general lack of energy for many things.  When once I used to think I had a "passion" for writing, the past several months have proved otherwise.  This is the first time I've written anything that means something in what seems like years. 

What?  What is this with which I am afflicted?  Is this the pain of all pains, a pain in which you can actually feel no pain, no joy, no sorrow?  What has cast this frost, this shadowy emptiness, this endless winter.  I am frozen in ice.