This question has been my enemy now for the last 12 years (no, that’s not a typo – TWELVE YEARS); it comes, it goes, but I can never get rid of it completely. And since right now, at this moment, I’m in the throes of one of my frequent bouts of melancholy, let me indulge and spew it here before it’s lost again.

The weekend is drawing to a close, tomorrow I’ll be forced to once again endure a week of numbness, and my soul is feeling restless –

I could write – but what’s the point?
I could read – but what’s the point?
I could catch up on email – but what’s the point?
I could work on the website – but what’s the point?
I could make some calls – but what’s the point?
I could go out somewhere – but what’s the point?
I could play some video games – but what’s the point?
I could watch tv – but what’s the point?

You get the idea. This is my prison; this is my dilemma. I have so many projects, so many things that briefly seem worthwhile in the bright light of day. But when the shadows come, when I become lost in my thoughts, they all fall away and I am once again left to ponder the question, What Is The Point?

I have some answers to the question – things that comfort me and help me through the day. But they are all intellectual answers, cold and sterile; they answer the question factually, but they don’t spark my heart, they don’t fill that hollow place that cries for meaning.

So, this will pass – in a few hours I’ll be lost in some vapid television show or twitching my fingers over an Xbox controller, and then it will be time to sleep, and then it will be time to work, and then I’ll forget all about this question I just can’t seem to answer for myself.

Until the next quiet time, when I have moments alone with my thoughts and the question returns. I’ll never get out of this rut until I can answer the damned question…

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