Writing Before Midnight

I write before midnight tonight so I can claim to write this weekend. I could pen truths about hallucinations, delusions, or the conditions of my melancholy, but I've penned those before. No matter how much I express myself, I'm still lamenting my solitude and the increasing strangeness of my life from others'. I love my writing when it attracts readership, but lately even that seems absent. I suspect it's the circular nature of my sadness. It's profound at times, but that profundity takes the same shape in regular cycles. If it's not my disease, it's the same sad and solitary state or a host of other mental maladies: all I've said before. Perhaps I've found the fruit of understanding, but the taste remains familiar and bitter. Love evades me, and peace I suspect is something I take away from myself with the constant agitation of my repeating, recursive cycle of distress. Whatever the reason, I'm up late without happiness or its pursuit; the night is young, and more of the same is certain.