Sometimes, I feel like I have lived for millennia, I don't know what it is, but I have these strange thoughts whilst reading something or when I listen to a particular piece of music, or even when the wind rustles through my hair on my runs or walks a certain way.

This feeling of aching knowledge; of a particular state of being, is so powerful that it knocks my breath away. This aspect of existence is not new, and yet the ongoing isolation has increased it's appearances in my life. I know that all of us our pondering the meaning of life right now and the great philosophical question of 'what it is all for?' has taken a permanent residence in our minds. Yet, why has it become increasingly difficult to share these thoughts?

I find myself having out of body experiences in the middle of inane conversations. I can feel myself looking at who I am and finding myself lacking. I don't feel depressed precisely; rather, it is a curious state of judgement and recriminations about ones character laced with frequent bouts of loathing towards oneself and the world in general. 

One would be a simpleton indeed, if one didn't recognize it for what it was, ' a particularly nasty bout of ennui'; and yet how does one get out of the dark pit? I send this question out into the void with hopes that there are others in the same metaphoric boat as oneself.