Why am I here, again?

Is it so wrong that I want to invent a way to capture a moment of my life, to set it in a bottle and save it to experience again? There are a handful of moments when I have been perfectly happy, when I have felt warm and loved and at peace, and I would do almost anything to be able to snuggle down into one of those moments again when I'm feeling wretched. Like now. Wretched is a good way to describe how I feel right now. Depressed. Bored out of my freaking skull. Apathetic. Wishing I could get rid of that little voice inside my head that tells me that I'll never be happy, I don't deserve to be happy, nobody wants me around, I have nothing to offer anyone else. I feel like a cheap imitation of something great: a poster of the Mona Lisa, a plaster gift shop figurine of The Thinker, a modern-English translation of Hamlet. Einstein's little brother Elmer. You get the picture. No amount of schooling or effort on poor ol' Elmer's part can make him a genius. Sometimes you've got what it takes, and sometimes you don't. And I don't. And I'm very fucking jealous of those who do.

That's all I ever really wanted. I'm not chasing after money or fame. All I want is to have something different and special about me, something that no one else can even come close to. I mean, if there's nothing about me that you can't find in another person, then what, pray tell, is the point? In short, I'm having a very hard time justifying my own existence. Is that what they call an existential crisis?

Alright then, I've said my piece and now I feel a little better. I think I'll go curl up with a book for a while; I bought one of those Barnes and Noble pocket copies of Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass today. Compared to life inside my own head, Alice's world seems downright sensible.