At the bottom

The stagnation of each day is something I have grown used to, the dullness that has virtually entangled itself into the core of my soul. I miss how delicate I once was, how charming reassurances swept me off my feet. Am I truly bored with all and everything? Or is it something more unsound? If there were any real reasons to put faith in, I would give them to him. Being hurt meant being loved, and the downfall meant there was something to dwindle from. I am stuck in this place where existence is indolent, life is tedious at best. There is no way of pinpointing when the goosebumps left my skin, when all of life's aesthetic value became tarnished. My books don't read the same, my mind does not wander to any solitary place. The muses get by through slips of memory, souvenirs of my sentiment. I could be doing and feeling so much more than this, not wasting away in the aftermath of surrender. At the very least I can admit to that - I wholeheartedly gave up. I am lingering between having learned a lifetime of lessons and finding the means to use them. The past is my southern comfort, it is blinding and hopeful. Yet it makes no exception to the things I have become introspectively isolated from. I miss the tragic, naive, bittersweet, trusting, unusual, ignorant, sincere shell of a girl that needed nothing more than a notebook and well-grounded hope. Why has she gone where I cannot follow?