I'm amazed at the way everyone around me still finds so much beauty in everything. I feel jaded and dried up inside. Nothing inspires me anymore, excites me or even revolts me. I've gone from crying buckets over a pin prick to looking coldly over the grave of someone I once knew and loved.

I read a lonely middle-aged woman's description of a Van Gogh painting and I know it's brilliant and moving but only just so. It's as if there is an invisible but very powerful wall between what I see and read and the emotions that are evoked. I can see but not smell, I can touch but not taste. I look at a young man's confessions of love, heartwrenching but smoulderingly so. And the tears that evade me are like borrowed pearls. I know that the beauty is mine to hold for a while and show but not to keep and experience.

I wrote this on a bored evening a few months back. Today I am actually living it. Is it the medication or am I just growing up?