The Taste of Drifting Failure

Ennui. The word came to my tongue less than fully formed, a bit mushy, but it stayed around. I rolled it through my mouth for a day before I shaped it into something solid, but it suits me, considering the circumstances.

I used to go searching for words, in bulk, but now I feel a visceral backlash when I read almost anything, like I would expect from food that spoiled. At the same time I feel spiritually starved, missing the satisfaction to stand up straight again.

Everything I say and read feels stale - brittle, an unkind remnant of something that once sated. At the same time, it slops together in a great stew, where I can no longer seem to distinguish the flavors and arguments within it. It used to be the ideas came through, sharp and deliberate, now I bumble through tongue tied, congested, dulled.

I wonder now to attribute my flightiness to this - I find myself equally repelled by all conditions of thought, and search endlessly between them because each one seems to miss something I can't place. Each new role I imagine for myself seems to suggest some reckoning, only now I see the list of jobs grown long as a realization itself.

The tastes lie on the edge of becoming describable. My drift towards fiction and allegory signals my pursuit into the barely unknown, where I imagine the solutions to lie. Ennui, the only word I make out now drifted from this nearly space. I spit it out, pick through it crudely with my fork, and hope it provides clues for when this fog on my senses will lift.