What’s left of this final stretch of the year, I’ve deliberately chosen to live it with a bit of fatalism. Starting each day without expecting anything at all. Like some dull, repetitive loop of a loop, empty and uneventful. I have my reasons, of course, but honestly, they’re nothing extraordinary. I wish I could make them sound deeper, more interesting, but the truth is, they’re not.
The rain becomes both an excuse and a kind of poetic permission, just like in the title, to let out what’s inside me. And there’s nothing particularly groundbreaking there, nothing innovative. But it does have me stuck in a strange state of being. Like I’m running on a trial version of myself. Some switches are off, and I can’t seem to find where to turn them back on. Certain things, like joy or liveliness, no longer feel like they belong here.
For months now, I’ve been drifting, wandering through that over-romanticized mix of melancholy and darkness. Like walking through the aftermath of a storm, where everything is still wet and heavy. The only traces I leave behind reflect the mess that came before. I’d like to call myself stoic, but I’m far from that kind of discipline. If anything, I feel more like a worn-out cynic. I try to move toward something better, but it always seems to move further away.
I tried therapy. Maybe I thought the problem was me. Who knows. I showed up, I talked about not wanting to feel joy anymore. I explained the why, the how, the when. I followed the steps, read about apathy and depression, used the tools they suggested… nothing really changed. Being like this feels like eating the same meal three times a day, every day. Even if it’s your favorite, repetition slowly drains it of meaning.
It rained today. I had just gotten home from work. I was on the couch like usual, music playing in the background, phone in my hand. I could hear the rain hitting because I’d left the window slightly open. And for a moment, I thought maybe this could be something. A scene worth capturing. Maybe photography, something that used to mean something to me, could spark anything at all. But no. Nothing. The photos turned out fine, I guess, but that was it.
Maybe it’s depression. Maybe it’s not. I don’t really know. I don’t cry, I don’t bother anyone. I just don’t feel anything. Like everything has been leveled out. That’s where I am. I’m not trying to romanticize it or turn it into something bigger than it is. I’ve done what I was supposed to do, and more, and still… nothing. I just hope you’re far from anything like this. It’s not good or bad. It’s just gray. And gray doesn’t exactly give you much to hold onto, does it?
