Feels like life is coming to an end

At least life as I knew it.

Everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Even though materially I’m fine. Safe. Healthy enough. Loving friends and family.

There’s more emotion than I ever remember feeling. Less and less resistance to feeling anything.

More love, more fear, more anger, more sadness, more affection, more joy, more exhaustion, more of everything, if they’re categorised and labelled.

More often these days they’re not labelled. Just undifferentiated sensation. Endless amounts of it and endless capacity for it.

There’s very little drive or hope, while also nothing I can call depression.

The fire that drove the motivation toward future hopes has burned out. There’s nothing left that could resurrect it, though sparks of excitement, desire and daydreams about the future still attempt to relight the burned ash.

While in one sense this feels like utter hopelessness, it also feels more alive than ever. Raw, real, and beautiful.

Conventionally, there’s a sense of being a complete failure. If I think about it.

With or without that thought, everything is just as it is. Perfect in the imperfect.

Knowing that, the doubt still holds on.

Could it be another way?
What if I didn’t end up here?
What if I never saw this?
Could I go back to believing the illusion?
Could I just be normal, whatever that means?

How to go back to being normal when that’s predicated on believing something untrue?

I understand now why my teachers said it’s not something you can wish on anybody.

I can understand why this isn’t something that’s wantable.

I can understand why it’s not something you can just back out of.

Like my teacher said it comes like a thief in the night. It takes everything from you.

Then when you’ve seen the thief, pretending you didn’t see it is nothing more than a painful lie to yourself.

Before, I thought this was the solution to everything.

I thought that all my problems would be solved just by seeing reality more clearly.

Instead I saw that my problems are not problems.

I saw that that which had problems to solve is an illusion.

Yet the habit of focusing on problems, while thinner than ever now, still has momentum.

So there’s a feeling that problems are still problems often enough.

Problem solving still happens. It happens with less and less agenda to fix a flawed self.

There’s a sense of grief at the loss of the conventional life.

There’s nothing left to escape into. None of the escapes work anymore. Or rather they never did.

They were just temporary distractions from what’s right here, waiting to be looked at.

The only way left is through.

It’s where I don’t want to go, but inevitably will.