The truth is for all this drama and bullshit about living a fine life the only thing that distracts me from the world, really, is asking myself whether anything I'm doing is making any difference. It keeps me up at night, sometimes. It's easy to imagine where the work goes, how it falls into place in the grand layout of the universe--I'm not an aspiring fiction writer for nothing. But it's still there, a desire to stare pain in the face and give it a good rap on the head.
Part of why waves of emptiness assault me at my weakest: I've been around people for as long as I can remember. Now I've become too comfortable spending days in front of a screen. There are people in my immediate periphery, and I try to be there for them when I can (and God knows they've been there for me all the time when I need them). But you know when your emotional palette is not stretched enough. Life becomes repetitive.
One must find beauty where they can, or claw the earth and digital barriers and all colors of skies to find it. Both are valid. Both are real.