Girlfiend in a Coma

I thought I had written something brilliant in my journal today, but it turns out I was just whining about life.
How do I constantly deceive myself into believing in my cleverness?
Earlier I spent about an hour reading Henry and June by Anais Nin. Seven years have passed since I read it last. That basically just means that I'm old.
Rereading those first pages made me realize how much has come to be missing from my life that I didn't even realize was gone.
Passion, stong emotion, abyssmal depression and intense joy. Some how my burner has been set to medium. My pendulum no longer swings, but only flutters mildly from time to time.
I don't think I like this place.
"Vivacious" could no longer be used to described me. Along with "wild" or "spontaneous."
All of my worse fears have come true.
Except the fear of cutting my eyeball with paper.
Is it time for me to settle into a life of emotional mediocrity?
I feel the answer is no but I don't know how to make a change. Maybe something extreme needs to happen to me. Something bad, something good; either way, something to knock me out of my coma.