Existential angst...

I wish I was a Bacchante. I am tired of having my face pressed up against the glass of the attempt. It is a sickness of self, of treading the same roads of thought, of dreaming the same dreams--the imagination growing in grooves, with no bud to manifest. I want a loosening, I want to BE instead of watching myself watching myself and occasionally watching others. The time has come to be alone, yet the talk of being so is like a shard my mind cannot fully touch. Things like Facebook tick away with other people 'being' and you sitting on the Circle line and never getting off, but watching silhoettes and relationships appear and vanish (and I was on the real Circle line today and thought precisely this--which is ridiculous. Self-help books talk about 'changing your perceptions', but that's like saying that young people 'need to get more involved in politics').

And then there's that sense of  wondering if you have been eroded somehow. Apparently back in February I was 'spontaneous' and didn't seem to 'take life too seriously'. *Reads the above paragraph* Damn.