I would say that it’s a sense of foreboding, but I don’t want it to all negative like that.

My soul roils. Portents abound, uninterpreted.

The Republic has fallen, on the eve of its 231st anniversary.

I feel nothing.

When was the last time I took the time to get to know someone? When was the last time I cared about anyone besides myself?

Will this change? Or as time marches on, does my heart turn to stone, setting like concrete, dried out, dessicated, insensate to the concept of love?

Is this the stillness that I’ve been seeking? Unmoved by longing, shrugging off fantasy and desire like so much dross?

I don’t know the answer, and I’m afraid of what I’ll find.

What is the meaning of life? How do I go on living?

What does it mean to live life to the fullest?

The thing is, without any of the chasms, there are no heights. Without a nadir, there can be no zenith.

What do I wish for? Where do I go next?

So many goddamn questions, and never any answers.