The oceans in us

I must have worked for hours on end; time is lost on me when there is so much to be done. My eyes are tired and my head is heavy. I struggle to find motivation to exercise, when just barely a week ago I had so much fervour to run every single night.

Was I better off back then? I can't imagine so. It was weary being a prisoner in my own head, listening to paranoiac voices, replaying unreliable memories, and feeling a void so gaping that I myself am genuinely taken by surprise at the extent of the departure. An encounter so brief, yet so commanding. For the draw of the ocean is the thrilling potential for new discoveries, felt most intensely only at shore, with gentle waves, lapping at your feet, bearing promises (which can be broken).

Perhaps now that I am more emotionally balanced (to be able to look back with objectivity is indeed a lesson in itself), there is no impetus for movement; no build-up of excessive energy that I must vent in order not to combust internally, no desperate need for distractions to drown gnawing emotions. Just dull white noise rumbling on quotidian details. Boredom growing from oblivion. Lethargy making itself comfortable in my consciousness. 

It's hard to say which I prefer.