Grey

Lately I’ve been thinking, that is if I am still capable of critical thinking in the sense I put in critical. I’ve become everything I was afraid of. I’m a prosaic person. I can’t feel. I can’t think. I can’t live. I just go on – day in, day out. There’s nothing for me. All I think about is the past. It seems much better than it really was I guess. But in my worst moments I did things – I took hold of the immense feeling that conquered my being and I translated it on a piece of paper. I read (with a feeling). I made photos. I was really interested in the world, even though it was a morbid fascination. Now… there’s nothing. Once I wrote that everything is grey. Well, it wasn’t. Now I know what grey is. I know I have to find myself again but it’d be a long journey. And even if I do, I’m not sure if I would be capable of the feelings I had a couple of years ago. Is happiness a disease?