Sometimes I wish a real, concrete, emotional blow would hit me straight up in the heart, just so I can feel human again. I cry, I weep, I wail, I laugh, I smile, I swallow; but all for half-baked reasons that are bereft of me. Such paltry reasons for emotional upheavals feel weak and contrived, like I'm scrabbling for shreds of emotion past and fleeting to hold on to, crying over a memory I'd gotten over but pulled out again. But at the same time, there isn't anything to smile or laugh about, that something which creeps into your heart, touching a spot that flushes your cheeks and tingles your nerves. This steadfast plodding in shades of grey is numbing my senses; I don't feel alive.

It sounds jaded and cynical, but I don't remember the last time I felt that tingly breathlessness of unbridled joy. Or maybe I do. But I don't remember how it felt. It's funny remembering but not knowing, like an old favourite toy; lovely, sweet and fond, but you've simply forgotten how to conjure those feelings you had when you played.

Well, I know despite what I've foolishly said, it's just my careless and obstinate way of acting on a whim for change. Because I contradict myself all the time, and will live to regret that sharp blow, should it come, begging it to be taken away. Sometimes I think all I really want is that utopian dream, like snapshots in a magazine.