Newtown, old questions

I took a train to Newtown today.  It made me realise how little I get out.  New buildings by the railway line, little changes like new paint.  The western end of King Street is quiet, full of pokey little shops selling decrepit furniture as though it were treasure smuggled from the golden days.  Interspersed with those are dozens of restaurants and cafes, from tacky diners to dim-lit places with expensive tablecloths.  As though nobody can affort furniture, because they’ve chosen to always eat out. 

I found myself struggling for a sense of identity.  Ugly city.  Boring people.  Perhaps I am a boring person too.  I don’t want to be part of this city, of these people, this hive.  And I am not part of it, much.  I am not much part of anything.  Singleton, unattached, unrelated to this society that surrounds me.  Not defined in relation to others, I feel like some abstract absolute, mathematically undefinable.  Swirling and unformed. 

Brings back the same old questions.  What am I doing?  Am I getting anywhere?  What am I supposed to be doing?  Feels like I’m drifting through life half-asleep.  Maybe that’s a good thing, relatively speaking.  Perhaps most people drift along completely asleep, and don’t even notice. 

I’m not in the wrong place.  If I were, I would feel it.  I’m living by intuition, and that is alien to a lot of people.  So is chronic illness, for that matter.  It’s my life.  I just get tired of being the odd one out.  Tired of being expected to listen to speeches that are always about someone else.  Tired of the isolation, like sensory deprivation that starts to dissolve the threads of who I am.  How can I heal myself if I’m slowly dissolving into an amorphous mess?  Then again, what would I know?  Perhaps it’s the only way.