of your eyes, begonia skies

there's this disembodied feeling in my chest and i don't know how else to put it into words.  i'm starting to feel more and more stifled, kind of like i'm trapped in a bubble of white noise echoing endlessly.  somehow i knew post-A's liberation wouldn't be as glorious and wonderful as i expected it to be and once again, i was right.  perhaps i ought to trust my gut instincts a lot more.  i think there's a kind of beauty in the yearning, in working towards an ever-illusive dream or goal that you've sought for in days or weeks or even months to come and when it's finally within reach you realize it isn't as gorgeous and wonderful as you thought it would be.  is that why people like to attribute much more to the process rather than the end result? is that why daisy "tumbled short of his (gatsby's) dreams, not through her own fault, but the colossal vitality of his illusion"? perhaps.  i feel like i am expected to feel happy, like i am supposed to have these grand sentiments of relief and sheer joy but somehow it just doesn't seem to be happening.  something is so, so wrong but i really can't put a finger to what it is.  i sound absolutely insane right now and while everyone's out and about and enjoying themselves i've never craved solitude more yet this silence is starting to sap the very life out of me.  i'm a blundering mess right now and i don't know what to do with myself anymore