Lacking Purpose

It's unexpected and very worrisome. To actually have made time for yourself and have nothing to do. you don't want to write you don't particularly want to meet people and you don't want to meet yourself. In fact, frankly I'm embarrassed by myself. It hurts that so many find me obnoxious. That I happen to be that so regularly and that if I'm not, people expect it of me and read lil bits of obnoxiousness even when I'm just cleaning my ears paying attention to the nuance of insult. But I digress.
You also have run out of excuses and have nothing left to do but find a sense of purpose. Some reason to get out of bed in winter. And I'm assuming the sceptic isn't going to ask 'Why stay in?'
Why get out, why do anything, why try to live an interesting life? And if you aren't made for something important, why try to be and lust for it? What is this obsession with purpose after all?
But I digress.
It is really about the loss of self. I have lost my sense of self-definition in the whirl of other-people's opinions and self-criticism. I think I lost respect for what I did a long time ago and ran out of sympathetic and indulgent friends in the city in the many years one's taken to lose oneself in work. And among the many confusions of morality and destiny and spirituality I think I lost a core set of beliefs. What this leads to is an emptiness of self. A not particularly spiritual state, a not particularly self-piteous state, a not particularly anything state, except an abiding feeling of hollowness. Of the rather unreal experience of living with your shell.