My Therapist

        My therapist asks me what am I thinking.  I know I've been spacing out more than usual and of course they could tell easily.  My eyes had been mentally fogged over since Sunday. 
  Waiting a moment until I spoke, I ran through all the possible starter topics that come to mind and chose the best one.  "Everything... but nothing," I say.  They stay silent, signalling for me to continue.  I go into a place in my mind that allows me to block off the idea that I am voicing my current status to anybody.  "I quit my job a while back," I stop shortly after stating that.  There's nothing else I want to say on that matter.
  "I'm slowly drifting away from myself.  I can stare into the air for hours with the silence surrounding me.  There's usually someone besides me around, but I do this in my free time.  I wonder, during this time, constantly if I'm even worth it.  Though, you may question if it's really my worth that I'm always measuring up or if it's... my talent.  I wonder that too.  I know that isn't what I'm judging.  I view myself as a copy machine.  I can make an image of what I know instead of what I can pull out of thin air.
  That kind of thinking is also irrelevant.  Creations are from what you know and not what a magic ideal can provide.  They do not exist.  I don't always tell myself this.  It runs my mental state into fatigue and all I ever want to do is sleep.  With or without my eyes closed; so I do.
  I appreciate the idea of a clean slate being clean, instead of soiling it with my dirty ideas.  So I never create anymore and admire that piece of paper.  I think I need a new career or a new life.  I don't think that my stuff is anything special to me.  
  I'm doing the opposite of what I wanted in my teens but I was way more hormonal then.  I was much more confused.  I think," my eyes shift slowly from looking down straight ahead of me to the left, along with tilting my head.  My therapist said nothing following my completion.  They weren't there and I didn't seek out help.