To wade through the tempest

Hark, soldier:
wade through the tempest,
find your way home.

I try too hard. Every day, I'm constantly reminded of that seemingly undeniable aphorism (I say aphorism, of course, because unwritten Puerto Rican laws strictly forbid any attempt at productivity). Be it with love, with school, with life—I put too much ‘strain’ on myself. “Just relax, son. Don't take everything to heart.” I suppose my parents are right—what with the recent visit to the hospital, after a panic attack (or something similar) had me thinking that my heart was beating irregularly—but they fail to understand the situation I'm currently in.

I find myself dwelling in the depths of nihilism—believing in nothing, questioning everything—looking for purpose; and, at times, it provides a terrible sense of excitement, satisfaction. Yet, after the thrill, the bemusement, the brief convulsions of ecstasy—I feel empty, lost. While looking for some misplaced motive, I seem to have misplaced myself in a bizarre conundrum that reeks of pessimism: namely, a deep infatuation for a female that could never love me, and—much worse—could never understand me.

The debacle is aggravated further: I have slowly come to doubt my own worth, especially the one that my friends assign to me. It seems I am only useful for Chemistry or Math problems—anything school-related, to be honest. Don't get me wrong—I am completely obsessed with Science and Mathematics, and it does not really bother me to help. The problem here is that I feel more and more like a machine; more and more like I should be the one being typed on, rather than this broken-down computer. I feel impersonal, material—I feel used.

I'm in love with one of my closest friends, yet it is with her that I feel most used—and, thus, most useless.

“Dear—darling—don't kiss me goodbye: when have you kissed the things you use?” I've always wanted to say that to her.