I just noticed today that I don't write anymore. Well, not like I used to. I used to write short stories, poems, songs, journal entries; anything for the sake of writing. Only now that I recall this do I also remember how cathartic it would be, to solidify all this noise inside my head. I think there must be something satisfying about taking a small fraction of what's up there, and allowing it to make that leap from thought to something tangible; something that exists.

This seems to be my primary motivation in life: to find something I can hold on to. I don't know where this desire comes from. An unstable home while I grew up? Some might say so, but I've always felt I rose above that and instead of acquiring negative traits from the experience, I just lacked the positive ones that should have been instilled in me during that time.

It seems as though I'm always searching for something to die for; a cause, a person, an object. I'm constantly filled with a desire to be part of something greater... but greater than what? The answer would be greater than myself, greater than what one person's life can mean in this world today.

Does that mean I have self-esteem issues? Do I feel somewhere inside myself that all I could amount to in this life is less important than what my death for the sake of a cause could mean?

Objectively, this seems to be the diagnosis. This would mean that I have a problem with self-esteem. And maybe it has just gotten so bad, that I no longer write because I feel like my own opinion, my own thoughts aren't valid or worth anything. Another part of me now openly rejects what I wrote. This is the part of me that also vehemently shakes it's head at the thought of having a problem to begin with.

What I need is a reference point, an individual that seems to be made for this society, rather than being an eventual product of it, someone to stand side-by-side and compare myself to.

. . .

Hmm. Now, as I've said a million times before, but I think I know what my problem is. It seems as though I question the validity and normalcy of my own thought processes too much. At some point, I seperated myself from my mind. Rather than thinking, "I feel depressed or happy or sad... why? What situation / what person / what chemical is causing this?", I need to start thinking, "I am depressed or happy or sad." I just watched "Grosse Point Blank" last night. It's one of my favorite movies. Now a particular line in this movie stands out in my mind like a plastic bag in the ocean: "This is me breathing."