You learn to block it out. You learn to like... not like, like would be the wrong word to use. You learn to accept the silence, and live with how much quieter life seems to become every year. It becomes a habit to the point that when you look around yourself without feeling this or that, it doesn't strike you as strange that things do not ignite curiosity, that they no longer beg you to be looking for something else.
This is all you ever aspired to be, and it's funny because now you have to figure out where to go from here onwards, and that seems to be the most difficult part. To be able to decide whether it's not knowing what you want, or being hesitant about wanting for fear of not getting it; which one of these prevents you from saying, from imagining?

You were are special. Now it takes convincing, validation, allowing the outside into your own separate self. This would be sacrilege before, but now it's just life. Sometimes you wonder if this slow dying has something to do with home, and how home fades away a little more everyday, loses some more blood. But then it makes you smirk at yourself, because this is pretentious and who has time for an existential crisis anyway? It doesn't even mean anything. You can't touch what's in your head, and if you can't touch it, how are you feeling it?

You ask yourself if you're happy. You convince yourself that you are.

I wonder if realizing the world is a lot bigger than us and what we think of it stops us from trying to think about it altogether. Is being ungrateful sometimes a good thing?