:: Saturday, January 10, 2004 ::

So.

So I keep meaning to sit down here and write something. But something keeps stopping me.

Perhaps I'm sick of it all. I'm sick of feeling so melancholy and I'm sick of writing about it and I'm sick of staring out of bus windows and listening to Elliott Smith. I'm sick of the rain and the slush and the cold weather that creeps through my coats, hats, mittens, clothing, skin, and into my bones. I'm sick of eating bread and looking pasty and feeling tired.

Do I sound depressed to you? See, that's not quite it. It's so hard to explain. It's fluid. It's like trying to fish out that piece of shell that fell in the bowl of broken eggs... you can chase it around, and you can get your finger right on top of it, but the minute you try to apply pressure it dodges away. So that's my metaphor of the night. I'm depressed until I commit it to words, and then I'm not. Then I'm just bored... until I say I am, and then I'm something else entirely.

So you can see why I'm confused.

And for the first time in a long time, I'm tired of talking about it. Chances are, you're equally tired of hearing about it. A few posts ago I mentioned Dostoevsky, and his idea that we make ourselves miserable on purpose in order to keep our lives interesting. Well, I'm not innocent of that by any stretch. But it's a little scary when you try to put the drama away and you realize it's taken over.

I'm being held hostage, it seems.

Hmm. So there you go.


~song~ Ani Difranco - Joyful Girl

:: Katy 2:07 a.m. [+] :: ::