On fullness

Couldn’t think of a more depressing start for the regular readers of my blog. Of whom, through a policy of elimination by depression, there remains only one. Reader, Object and Writer. The trinity of unity. The unity of empty. I don’t know if it just is a product of the chemicals of biorhythm. The reason why at times either purpose eludes me or the bulk of life seems to be meaningless. Like a dance around a space that is made meaningful by the dance but on its own has no reality. And that’s really the way life seems on such days. Not just my life, everyone’s.
So it is with meaning on the whole. Am I trying to find meaning in something that essentially isn’t meaningful? Perhaps I should enjoy the dance more, the spring in the step, the dervish-like trance that it induces. The fullness of it.
But I prefer to ignore it. As some have said, may be I prefer unhappiness, being like this. Enjoying the depth of feeling that it gives me. The sense of living, which I may or may not feel, but am not conscious about, and certainly don’t remember through words or moments. That must be it aside of a chemical imbalance, that makes this a recurrent internally alive state.
And now I wonder whether it would ever be full. And I have no answer. I don’t think I can ask for enough and I certainly don’t feel I can fill the empty space. I guess I will have to contend with enjoying the dance more, enjoy what meaning it has for me, what meaning it imparts to the empty space, around which it moves in increasingly complicated steps, and in doing so, albeit temporarily, fills it.