New year, old demons

Every day that I live, every person that I meet, every reaction to what I say or do - all confirm to me what I already suspect: I'll never be understood by those around me.

I feel extremely out of place amongst most of my contemporaries, and even those who I'm closest to can't comprehend the extent of my difference to them all. Of course, this isn't to say I'm better looking or smarter or more ambitious than they are. I'm just in a totally different place to where everyone else is. Whatever that means, I haven't got a clue.

I'm burdened by the weight of my own thoughts. I can't even follow a coherent sequence of thoughts in order to jot them down.

I don't think I'll ever find a place or a person who'll unlock a vault of happiness so far invisible to me. Rather, I'm fully aware of how only I can find my own path to being happy. I must immerse myself in things that make me happy, surround myself by people who understand me, read books that speak to me.

The new year has not ushered in a whole raft of self-improving resolutions aimed at yanking me away from the ever-encroaching tentacles of life. Instead, I am hoping that the new year earmarks the beginning of my phase of literary productivity. I don't really care about speaking to people who'll nod in sympathetic agreement. I want to transfer my thoughts from brain to book and hope that, one day, someone will read it and feel as if I'd articulated what the reader is feeling.

Till then, I shall keep writing.