FIGURATIVELY "UNTITLED."

I've not been in such a contemplative mood for weeks. Perhaps years, or at least months have passed since I've felt the withdrawn stab of legitimate intellectual thought. At least, to this degree. It's heightened, and not due to some waggling emotional fiber hidden within, not as a result of tragedy or humanistic need to substantiate my life from the supposed twenty-two thousand others who no longer share my binding livelihood on this great planet earth.
No. I'm far too self-absorbed for that.
And so, I ponder, what shall be my legacy to the world? Will I decipher some distinct purpose or being before I grasp mortality by its reins, or am I destined to live life as most do, with both eyes closed to the greater realm of possibility? Do I have such distinct calling? Or is that just the indignant greed talking?
(-) I've stopped sleeping like I used to. I'm sure it's merely transitional, but I can't rest for more than a few hours at a time, and when I wake, it's as though I'm panicked, or even frightened. Not mentally, mind you, but physically. And I've stopped retaining dreams altogether. I feel as though brackets of time are merely stolen from my consciousness, never to be supplemented or returned to me. Just taken. My breathing is far from improving, and that can only be signs of my left lung taking out its vengeful vendetta against medicinal treatment at large. I don't even want to have to think about it at this point.
(+/-) I've spent eighteen years of life without a romantic relationship of any sort. In my book, that's not only tolerable; it's the only righteous thing to do. Yet, in short, I've been ushered into thinking that perhaps it's near time for me to find someone to bond with for at least the short period of time between now and the beginning of my college career. Intimacy of any sort is supposed to increase a person's vitality, so why not toy with it, at least as an experiment for the Bettering Of Kelley? I have my doubts, and the likelihood of finding anyone to become involved with merely furthers my insecurities, but I'll leave that to chance and happenstance to deal with.
(+) I've decided I'm going to apply to Loyola in New Orleans. I wasn't even considering it as a possibility, but something deep and painfully digging is calling me in that direction. I'm not sure why, and I don't know how, but there's no application fee, so it's settled.
I continue to find myself in an odd and eerie state looming between depression and what I'd like to describe as madness. It's a bitter form of creative thought I wish I could harness and utilize, yet it evades me as even these words do. I struggle to make syntactical sense, let alone construct something of beauty or grace. And there it sits, elusive and just beyond my powerful, hungry grasp. I wish, dear God, I could step out and exude the verbal magnitude I know I must be capable of, but I fear I'll never reach such heights of majesty. And so I remain, bitter and eternally remorseful of what I'll never truly posses: the ability to write.
Gasp. It's certainly time to go to bed. Even if I'll find myself bitter and restless in a few hours. Hopefully, I'll move far from this state of mind by morning, but I'm not truly certain of anything at this point.
'Night.