When the cold rolls in

We've entered that time of year where sheer chills drive me back to the keyboard.
At least I know I'll be writing with some consistency.

Having awoken to yet another morning punctuated by the silent cries of my ailing back I must admit I grew somewhat despondent upon finally exiting the bed. The mere fact that being in an annoyingly persistent discomfort disallowed my getting up prior to noon causes me no small sense of frustration.
I feel like I'm wasting my life. Or rather the pain in my back is wasting my life.
I'm missing something important. Like seeing a child on a leash waving at an ambulance with a smile on their bewildered little cheeks. Or seeing a dog trotting aimlessly down the sidewalk with a tagless collar and no one walking beside them. Or feeling the bite of a bright cool as the Sun shines through the filter of invisible ice.

Instead I wallow in shame and anger as I feel subject to something inside me that I can't control.

And while I feel the love of those around me who empathize, sympathize, and moralize, I'm still left to my own emptiness once their cheers die out.

If only I could harness this angst and channel its power into something like a novel or screenplay. Or perhaps pursue acting in a real way. Or something. Anything.

At least I'm writing now. It is oddly satisfying. Almost drug-like. If only there was some sort of narcotic that would permit me to feel successful. Hopeful even.

And here I sit listing this objects I've misplaced of late. My favorite tank top (although I'm pretty sure I know where that is), my pages of typed (and unsaved) writing, my keys, and finally, my sense of purpose.