Where is Joy

Nothing has been harder, than this.  Every day a question burns through me, and I find no answer.

I've done what I can, and still it's not enough.  I've written, and written, and still need to find more words, to somehow form an answer for the same bloody question.  Where is joy?  Why is it so elusive, and why can't I find it?  Why can't I mimic it?

Why can't I replicate the smiling faces that seem to surround me?

Headaches, and heart pain. 

When I was young, I used to dream about packing a briefcase and a typewriter and living out at sea, on a small sail boat.  That was it.  There was nothing else.

I can't do this life.  I don't fit.  I don't make sense.  I am just, an oddity, without point or purpose.

I don't know if my MA course, has strengthened my ability to write or not.  I feel sick when I think about writing, I can hear too many people's opinions, their stupid words that overflow and I can't find my own and I can't think and find myself losing-

-Kamillah the writer-

and find myself and my work becoming their [PRODUCT] and I no longer own that work, I no longer own that creation.  There has been a violation somewhere, and I need it exorcised from my mind so that I can

be happy

prosper

exist.  

Where do people like me go, and where do they fit in?  When no one wants you or anything you have to offer, where on earth do you go?  And what do you do?  If there is no point in dreaming, what is the point of working?  If there is only rejection left to look forward to, what is the point of trying?  I tried to make friends at uni, at work, on my MA course and it all comes to nothing.  Love is a broken record I'll never fix.  This city doesn't want me, just my money.

What should I do?  What can I do?  Where is joy?