I miss (and took for granted) the feeling of having feelings. Not ordinary feelings, but feelings so strong and so enigmatic that they could only be released by paper and pen. Feelings with such potency that twenty-four hours could not subdue them and darkness only intensified their fervour. Fury, sorrow, elation, entrapment, fear, adoration are all unfamiliar to me now. We are only distant relatives- attached, but altogether disinterested in each other. I can probably count on one hand the number of individual feelings I have had in the last two weeks and four of those fingers would point at ‘insipid’. I am floating in and out of days like they are stalls at a market. Never really gazing at anything in particular for too long of a time. Not really finding anything interesting but not really bothering to look. Never really concentrating my efforts or investing myself in anything at all. Running on auto-pilot without a broader focus or a wider spectrum. Only dealing with what’s in front of me- blind to anything in my peripheral vision. An opaque screen hangs between my life and I. A diluted formula. Everything is flat. Nothing hurts like it used to because unknowingly, I have built an immunity to the catalysts of emotional tragedy. A firm, hard shell that refuses the entry of interest, passion, enthusiasm or anything that may jeopardise the established apathy that now reigns as supreme leader. A rigid exterior that protects the soft flesh of vulnerability beneath it- ardently performing its duty to prevent exposure and potential tribulation. I am plagued by numbness resulting from the ever-shrinking capacity to be vulnerable, to be messed with, broken, repaired, drowned and resuscitated. The joy and sorrow of youth is slowly waning. No more meltdowns. No more spirited poetry and prose. No more fresh produce sown from the distant recesses of the mind. No more mental narratives. No more compositions conceived from an abundant crop of entangled thoughts and sentiments. The earth is barren. Nothing but bare soil. No eager farmer. A blank canvas and a lacklustre painter. An endless stretch of Andes and a morose mountain climber. Not quite yet drained of feeling but spurting and gagging and clinging to existing remnants like the final drops of bath water. Longing for a refreshing vitality but met only by day-to-day mundanity. Longing for immaterial reflections with material repercussions. Longing for a heavy heart, a sinking chest or a stomach full of fluttering insects if only for confirmation that I am in fact a living, feeling human being and not simply the inflated and insentient sack of skin that I appear to have recently inhabited.