Famished.


I’m full. But I’m hungry.

I’ve slept well. But inwardly, I keep yawning. 

I show up yet I know: I did not show up whole today.

These are just few of the symptoms of a famished soul. 

Yes, my soul is hungry. For what? I’m afraid I don’t know. But I feel: the more empty this soul is, the more clueless I am. This void is eating me up, spitting out fear-bones for me to pick.

I’ve read this before or just recently. My attempts to make it through the day is a form of self-medication. I’m not into drugs or any other common vice. Okay. What I do have or habitually do is tune in the tube for at least an hour or so before I hit the sack. It doesn’t cure me (of course, it won’t). The “cure,” I believe, sits at the thought that after hours of toiling, I then did what I wanted to do — lose myself. A pity it is that after enduring the void of this hungry soul, I go on tending it with vice. Half-ass. I know.

But really can you blame me? I live in an era where if you have the top-things-to-need, education, work, house, then you’re all set. You can have more, sure, but it won’t be easy. Your wanting more could disrupt the “balance” that you’ve achieved. So why risk it? Thus, you sink. But still float.

If I’m to count my blessings, I’d have the top-things-to-have and a bonus: my famished soul. Ahhh… I could already hear the wind blowing through it, this soul. It makes a sound, a faint hollow of an echo.

 

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