all the pronouns are ‘you’ so it’s not about me.

You’ll feel like you’ve been hollowed out. You are a passionfruit and someone’s come and scooped out all the good parts. Now just the bare bones of what used to be a person, a building with nothing inside.
And you can’t seem to fix it. You have these conversations with yourself, trying to figure out what is going on. Trying to reason with yourself. You feel like your brain is trying to sit down with your heart and get it to say what’s wrong. But it’s not your heart, something a little further south, below the heart but above the stomach. You don’t even know what’s supposed to be there. Your soul? Anyways, trying to get it to calm down and rationally explain what’s wrong but it’s all hyped up and saying things in the semblance of an answer but not quite an explanation.
And you think you might have an idea of what brought it on, but you thought you were passed that. You’re older now, you’ve been here before, surely it doesn’t bother you anymore. And you toss and turn about how to deal with it, do you open up pandora’s box, or do you switch it all off? Or do you do a mix of the two and pretend everything is fine while your insides slowly fade away to nothing. You’re not sure what will be better in the long run. And do you even care?
And you spend hours staring at the ceiling, watching the fan just spin around and around. You sit down and try to write some kind of sad, epiphanic piece, but it just seems pathetic that you’re still struggling. You’ve been this way for so long, how aren’t you managing it yet?
So you just decide to wait it out. You’ll come good. You have before, surely you will again. And while hope is your worst enemy, it’s all you’ve got.