Chronically Empty

Weekly Diary Entry

ll these conversations, all these feelings—all on the surface.

For how intensely I want to connect and how much I like our talks,

Ultimately I just don’t get any of it: I simply don’t feel any of it.

Nothing. No

Love.

Empty.

And for how much of my time is spent daydreaming of a love, of

Friendships, of an idyllic future far less lonely; in reality

I don’t even know if I could embrace it.

I don’t feel close to anyone; I don’t even know what

Love feels like;

I can’t FEEL any of you.

I want to love but I can’t

Because I’m so very chronically empty—Nothing inside.

This story is part of a collection of poems, short stories and introspective reflections of my creation, called “Grimoire of a Weirdo”.