a nameless feeling

I laid in bed for an hour last night, trying to put a name to a feeling.

It's Friday today, and because it's a pseudo-holiday, I'll probably be sent home from work early. After saying my goodbyes, I won't speak face to face with another human until next Monday. Even so, the conversations that I have today and after the weekend will be pointless... really more an exercise in stretching the vocal cords after their long rest.

I'll be alone tonight, unable to escape the irony that less than a mile from me, they'll be dropping the ball in Times Square. More people than I can hope to imagine will be vibrantly living their lives so near to me, but there will be walls separating us. They'll be celebrating the ups and downs of a passing and coming year, basking in the drama that they create for themselves... I'll be wondering why they're doing that, and wondering why I don't. I'll be examining the fact that I'm opting to hide from life so that I can have the time to better understand it.

Later on, boredom will kick in, and I'll force myself to find a place to bring my reclusion to a more public forum. I'll revisit my normal task of trying to find a coffee house or pub that's not empty, but not too full... I'll probably fail and return home. If I happen to succeed, I'll just find a place to sit by myself, and will end up writing something similar to this.

You see, I'm figuring it all out. I'm growing into a human who's just a little more than he was the day before. Finally, when all my growing is done, I'll have just as little to show for my effort as everyone who chose to live rather than observe... we're all just entertaining ourselves, waiting for the need to do so to finally be over.

I'm invisible... unheard and unseen. I'm just as much a stranger to myself as I am to any other, and see little chance of this changing. I can play the game and pretend to care about the 'finer' things in life, but in some ways, I know too much to place any value on them. The more you learn, the grayer the world becomes... beauty comes in forms of black and white, but when those smear together, it all looks the same. The futility of any action tends to stare you in the face, and even the act of realizing that futility is tainted by it the same.

It's easy to call this feeling loneliness, but that's not the right word for it. At times it bleeds into loneliness, but more often it doesn't. Being this way makes sense to me, and it also seems as futile as anything that those other people will be doing tonight. I'm partially content to be an invisible observer, but contentment isn't a good word for this either. This is just the way things are... it's a feeling of being empty and full at the same time... having wisdom without an opportunity for its application. It's being trapped in the moment before the race begins, with all intent, energy, and focus placed on the gunshot that never comes. It's living a life that's on hold, with the vague realization that it's always been on hold, and shows no promise of ever being any different.