Not deserving of a title

Sometimes when I sit down with myself, to write or try to read, there is a feeling that when all the business, in the sense of busy-ness, is taken away, when completely alone, there is really nothing there. There is no voice to talk to amongst myself. There is nothing within to make me smile or push me forward. Strange, considering that looking on I'm sure it looks that I'm an entirely sensible, well-travelled, well-educated(ish) kind of person. It's hard to really understand that however you're feel at this moment isn't how you've always felt, and it isn't how you will always feel; that even in ten minutes time someone may come into the room and you'll have completely changed course. Not in an insincere way, not that you're trying to seem like a cheery amenable person. Just that you only exist when someone is there. Even now it doesn't seem reasonable to have had all the thoughts that have led to these words without any conscious conversation, just with them spilling out from some void. It really is peculiar.

When Keats is close.

When I have fears that I may cease to be well.
Well, I will cease to be,
Cease to be well.
I will cease.

When I think of all that I could have been doing.
When could I have been all that?
I think I could have been.
I think of all.

When I think of all the pain that I have caused you.
All that pain when I think of you.
I have that pain.
I have you.

Now I know of the time that slips away from us all.
Time I know now, slips away.
Now away from All.
I know now.