What depresses me is not so much The Thing Itself (whatever The Thing happens to be at the time), but the godawful endless boring repetition of it. I am so tired of repeating things. Sometimes I’ll think, god dang it, maybe I’ve already said everything I’m ever going to say~
How many things are there really to say? I mean, really! Hell! Don’t you get to a point where you have to come up with new ways of saying the same old things, mostly to keep yourself from falling asleep? Baby, I’m exhausted!
I walk down the street and I sit in booths by myself and I eat the same foods and drink the same beverages and see the same kinds of people and lord oh lord is it making me tired as hell.
On the way back up from the Bay, I thought that maybe I felt something again for those few days. And as soon as we stopped in snowy Ashland at 2 a.m. to get coffee, I knew that I was also going back to that big grey lukewarm sludge I live inside of most of the year. I would almost rather feel rotten as hell than feel the way I do, because at least then I would have more interesting sentences to string together. I sit down to write and I’m so tired and my head is empty. Baby, I’m slushed. I’m slushed hard.
Am I sick? Do I have mono? Can you get mono by sulking alone in a dark room? I am not just Soul Tired but Body Tired too. I can’t sleep and when I do it’s bad—and I am always tired and I can’t sleep, and on and on. I haven’t slept in a year.
(I really do wonder if most of the reason I feel this way is because for the first time in my entire life I hate my current bedroom and never want to be in it.)
((My room is terrible. It has not seen sunlight in nine months.))
(((I don’t even really like sunlight, but it would be nice to at least have the option of inviting some in!!!)))
I lay down and I think about people and places and so on. I see them vividly! I miss particular points in time, but really I miss modes of living that are no longer available to me and never will be again. It’s my fault. It is not defeatist to say I cannot change most things, it’s just more pragmatic. Good lord do I miss some people though, and the homes they used to live in, and so on. Childishly I think of ways to get it all back. It’s gone. Man it sure as heck is gone.