The Dead Tree of Life

How can you live a meaningful life when you believe that life is meaningless? How can you make it through the day when you believe that each motion you make, each word you say, each breath you take, is ultimately futile? How can you live your life when you believe that there is no reason to live? I cannot say, but I must wonder, for the Tree of Life is dead.

I have always wondered about the meaning of it all. That is nothing new. I have thought about it for years--since before I was truly conscious of my identity as a human being. But for some reason, the thoughts are different now. I have had them this past week with seemingly feverish intensity. I am no longer sick. I should be feeling better. I do not understand why the sickness of the soul has returned. It seems to come every year around this time, and by God I cannot say why my mind feels the need to torture itself like so. It is the most horrid depression imaginable, where everything seems so futile and meaningless. Everything hurts, and the universe is cold and empty. Everything is dead. I am utterly alone in a burning theater packed with a fat, panicking mob. Everything is disgusting and distasteful. Nothing is as it should be, and this knowledge hurts like hell. I see that I cannot make any of it right--that it will be crooked forever. I lose all hope. My soul shrivels up and loses its leaves.

I cannot write when I am like this. I need to, desperately, but I fundamentally cannot. I sit in front of my computer, highly caffeinated, for hours into the night. I stare at blank word documents, blasting music, trying to blast feeling into my soul. And then the tears come. I well up and fold myself in half, weeping, face contorted in perfect agony. I can never quite say why I am crying, but that there is nothing else I can do. It isn't just a fleeting disappointment; it is deep-seated sadness whose roots I simply cannot determine.

I don't know what to do. I know that being miserable doesn't make me special--it only makes me miserable. I know that this is probably the result of a simple chemical imbalance, and could be treated by drugs if I were not too proud to speak to someone in that damn mob. I don't know anymore. I just... I can't live like this. Something needs to change; I know neither what nor how. But I can't live like this. It's killing me.