Sunday, August 27, 2006

I wish I had words

for the way I feel right now.

It's this strange active melancholy. It doesn't disable me. I was just folding clothes. It like the remnant of the guilt of sitting on the computer all day or sleeping all day when I know there's things to do....or like when I look around and embarrassed at the idea that someone might see my room in it's current state of squalor.

Or the thought that I'm neither near a relationship that would result in a fruitful family life or in a stable enough condition to provide for one.

There is downtempo music playing on my computer adding to this strange atmosphere.

Yet I'm not paralyzed into malaise by depression. I'm folding clothes.

It's like the difference between floating in the muck and wallowing to get chores done. You feel the energy/momentum and have glimpses of the ideas to get you out of the funk, but you don't quite make the effort to leave it.

Floating adrift on a raft of intent.

And the more you float, the more you recognize that the energy is temporary. It's like a drug, you use it just long enough to get you up to the kitchen to get a sandwich, knowing that you won't be distancing yourself from procrastination self-dismissal long enough to get you anywhere useful.

You just float. You don't scream, but you think about screaming. You don't run - even though you feel the electricity in your thighs buzzing to crack you into forward momentum.

You just exist, just enough.

Because you fear succeeding. Because success means dealing with the responsibility of success, and that may be scarier than the prospect of failure.

The shore is scarier than the muck. You're used to that.

You exist...


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