What are you supposed to write about, to know about, to enjoy, when you are not sure where your soul's misery has taken you?

I wish that I could answer that question for the world. Though I suppose only the lost souls would understand.

Theologically I know that I have not lost my soul, but there is no question that is what it feels like. It brings up the question of the possible parts of a person. Dichotomy or trichotomy?

If my soul is not really lost to me, then what did I lose? Because something is definitely gone.

It seems every area of ly life is fuzzy now. And I don't mean the warm kind. Every line is blurred. This becomes depressing in matters that affect my world view, but in little things like my favorite color, it makes me really question my sanity.

But if you can question your sanity you must be sane. Or so I thought. I thought a lot of things and have been coerced to change my mind recently.

I know that this must all be for the better, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.

In the beginning it was all I could do to make my thoughts and feelings known to me, let alone tell anyone else. I didn't feel the need as often as I (looking back) thought I would have. I told my story b/c I had to say something; and it ddn't bother me to talk about it. Now I know that every time I open my mouth, someone thinks they know what I am going to say, thinks they know how I feel. But I know that for the falsehood that it is. It is all I can do to feel anything any more, and when I do I only wish someone did understand. I wish they who listen to me would actually hear what I am trying to tell them.

A reputation for hyperbole doesn't help the situation. The pointedness of my thoughts strikes them dulled by disbelief, by the skepticism I cultivated in them in every moment until this one. I cry wolf, and yet I fear I am becoming one.