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/me stands in the middle of the room, staring listlessly at the door.

roommate: you alright?
me: just thinking...

Thoughts drift through my mind, another average week drawing to a close, I pretend to do some homework, yet I remain distracted.

I waste a few hours reading nodes, it's been a few months since I've contributed, I keep saying to myself to start doing write-ups again, but the spectacular inspiration never comes. I wonder if there's not a greater underlying problem beneath the surface.

When I was a child I used to imagine things. Things that could never happen, things that I wish would happen, things I feared would happen. My nose was always in a book, even while everyone else in my class played at recess. Some grown-ups thought I was "special", I just didn't like the other kids. They didn't really understand me.

I wonder if I even understand myself anymore. A billion thoughts collide in my mind at once in some kind of hyper-Darwinism, but little remains. I have momentary flashes of inspiration, but I lack the imagination to carry them through.

I still manage to entertain myself, I've always been good at that, but I find time spent with other people to be less rewarding. I was never too fond of people in general, but those that I "clicked" with I treasured dearly. I used to spend hours talking with my friends about everything, now most of my time talking to my "friends" is spent discussing assignments, petty college relationships, or some dull event that occured during the day. There's no real sharing. No real moments. Maybe I don't have anything left to share.

I start to see how average I've become, I fear the mean. How did I end up in this position? I still read a fair amount, I understand more complex things than I did five years ago, I buy "engaging" music, and watch "intellectual" movies. Is it my lack of intelligence? My lack of imagination? Something is definitely missing, there's no excitement, no soul.

College is supposed to be the place where you find yourself, and instead I wonder if I haven't lost myself, or more accurately my connection with myself, and subsequently my connection to the world. Somehow I've managed to excise myself out of me. Living in an apartment, constantly surrounded by other people, and yet the connections are tenuous, drawn out like a strand of silk. Nothing substantial, no real community. I look at the faces of everyone that I walk by, I don't really know anyone here.

Reminds me of a surreal scene from Waking Life. The main character, a boy of perhaps 18 bumps into a girl as he descends the steps to the train station. They do the customary "excuse me" and begin to proceed on their individual ways, when the girl turns around and asks if they can do that again. She begins talking about how people move around each other like their ants in a colony, everyone with their individual intents moving mindlessly around each other, trying to get by with minimal disruption. The girl and the boy end up sitting down and having a meaningful discussion. Yes this scene is a dream in the movie, but I feel it is representative of my current state of being.

I move about with minimal disruption to myself and others. Is it because I'm to afraid to reach out and really stare into someone's soul? Or am I too afraid to show them the real me.

Who am I? Who are you?

Maybe before I can begin to answer this question, I need to become reacquainted with myself.

I can imagine things being different. I suppose that's a start...