Metacognition...Almost

I've been thinking a lot about writing lately.  I've spent hours agonizing (alright, perhaps not that dramatic) over what to write, wondering what I had that was worth saying, contemplating whether I should say one thing or another, express this or that.  I'm still not really sure.  I'm still pulling a blank.  Today has been relatively calm, and that's a good thing.  I like that.  I like that very much.  But that still leaves me with the question of what to write.

Perhaps the better question is what I should do right now.  I'm tired.  Eight hours of sleep over the course of two days will do that to you, especially when it's that on top of pre-existing sleep deprivation.  So I'm too tired to work.  It would be nice to see people right now, to do something interesting or exciting.  The problem with that, though, is that just about everyone I know or would want to spend time with is currently busy...and will be for the next two and a half hours.

I also realized that I changed topics mid-post.  Oh well, I guess it happens.  So here I am, changing the subject again.  But really, I don't know.  I've got nothing worthwhile to say, no brilliant or even vaguely intelligent ideas, no realizations or discoveries to share with the world.  I'm just me, sitting here bored and alone and somewhat confused, wondering what I'm supposed to do with myself now.

And as I sit here wondering about that, the bitter taste of underachievement creeps into my mouth.  It's that miserable sense of not having done enough.  It's knowing that if I had done more, if I had done better, if I was better, I'd be busy right now too.  But I'm not.  And everyone I know is.  And now I'm sitting here feeling all pathetic and inferior because there goes yet another part of my life that I've messed up.

Fair enough, that's over-exaggerated.  I'm not that upset about it.  I'm just a bit dramatic because of how bored and tired I am.  Regardless though, I am still less than pleased with this.  Because I know that to a certain extent, it really is true.  And now I have to face myself knowing that fact.  Alas, it happens.  I'll deal.

It Will Be Okay

I needed that.  Much as I hate having to put everything down from my mind and dump it before a person for evaluation and judgment and organizational help, I really needed that.  It wasn't exactly easy.  I'm not much good, and never have been, at putting thoughts out coherently.  They always seem to come out incorrectly or in a way that makes them seem so much more horrible (or occasionally less so) than they are.

But I feel better now.  I truly, honestly feel better now.  I feel better because putting everything down, saying all of the stray fragments of thought and emotion and pure confusion that had been floating around my mind helped me to actually make sense of it.  I'm not insane.  I'm not irrational.  I am human.  Yes, I messed up, and not for the first time.  But with respect to this, I am alright.  I am fine.

Sure, I'm still hurt, I'm still broken, I still have issues with trust and emotions and reactions and vicious cycles.  I know that.  But what that helped me do was put it all down and just look at it.  Talking it through helped me to make more sense of why it hurt and how I could change it.  This is going to be a slow process.  It's not going to be easy.  And it's going to take a lot of effort and possibly cause a lot of pain.

I hope that in the end it's going to make me better, though.  At least now I have a tangible way to approach this.  It gives me the opportunity to slowly but steadily work my way out of this hole, to get past this discomfort.  There's still a part of this I'm not sure about, still something that I'm trying to figure out that didn't get covered.

Maybe that's not exactly what I want or how it should be explained.  Regardless, I do need that step back right now, if only to get back to my senses a bit.  I'm shaken right now, not just from this but from a lot of stress that's been in my life lately.  So I'm going to step back a bit and look at this objectively and make some sense of it.  I don't want it to be at this point forever, but I don't want to back away immediately.

I don't know when this temporary change is going to be undone.  But this 24 hours, maybe 48, maybe longer, I need it.  I'm not sure why, but I want to just step away and think more clearly about it.  It's not something I really want to do, but I'm scared, and uncertain, and I just want to simplify this for a bit, to try and work on the other aspects without that getting in the way.

That's probably confusing.  I apologize.  This is a way to sort out my thoughts.  This is how I'm making sense of my emotions.  If you want an explanation, ask and I'll try to answer as best as I can.  I feel better, like I can make this work, like I really know that it can be okay and that it will be.

You Are Here

Several years ago, an opportunity appeared in my life that required me to become especially familiar and comfortable with the use of maps.  It was along the lines of these things where you have to not only know it really well, but also thoroughly understand it and be able to apply the knowledge and understanding.  So I took it upon myself to learn this, to figure it all out.  And as was my standard convention for gaining knowledge in those days, I went to the library and found myself a book on the subject.

This book was called, rather aptly, You Are Here.  Now, since several years have elapsed since I've even seen the book, I must say that I really don't remember anything about it.  This really was a while ago.  It wasn't exactly what I was looking for either, so I flipped through it quickly and promptly returned it, not thinking particularly much of anything in it, as it didn't affect me in the least at the time.

So now, several years down the road (oh the irony), I find myself remembering it.  We think of so much in this world in terms of maps.  To figure out where to go, we rely on a schedule to tell us when and a map to tell us how to get there.  Maps, be they accurate representations of the world we live in or mere metaphors for ideas, imaginings, dreams, lives, or whatever else, are the tools we use to determine our place in the world.

We've taken maps from the interpretations of the land they once were to address our situations in life along the plane of time.  They represent anything we may want.  We've found ways to change scales and interpretations, models, and objects being put before us to make maps into what we want them to be.  They have come to represent places, people, networks, societies, and anything else we may want.

Such a seemingly practical object, something so simple as a map...and yet we have made it into something so complex, so incomprehensible, so precious to ourselves as a human society.  Things we may not call maps, yet when we come down to it are really one and the same, we've made it mean something important, something essential to our human mindset.  It's how we learn about ourselves...not only where we are, but who we are as well.

Requisite Time

I'm writing right now...why?  I'm not entirely certain.  Most likely it is because I actually have a legitimate space of time in which to work (work, yeah right, I meant write).  In part it is also because I know myself pretty well by now.  And thus, I know full well that because I am me (that would indeed be assumed), I am not likely to find any other time to do this or do it even half-decently.  So I figured I might as well do it now.

This also leaves me with the question of how long it typically takes me to write a post.  Certain posts, when I've either had a lot to say or had absolutely no desire to say anything or was crunched for time or any other reason, I've cranked out in five minutes flat.  It wasn't hard, really.  Those are the sorts that are easy to write without too much thought involved.  Somewhat like this one.

But other posts, be it the one with 100 things I live for or others that I've thought about particularly closely, those have taken sometimes almost a full day.  Perhaps unfortunately, this isn't one of those.  I really don't think I've written a particularly good post in a long time.  This isn't it.  Maybe tomorrow?  I don't know.  Getting back into the swing of things is hard and I don't really have the time to write particularly well at present.  My apologies.  Again.

Sense

Maybe it was never supposed to make sense.  Maybe that's the whole idea, that it all goes flying by without so much as a glimmer of change, of significance, of recognition.  In the end, it doesn't even matter.  So it doesn't.  And that's easy.  It's easy because it gets rid of the fear, the uncertainty, the worry associated with the future and particular consequences.

But it's also really hard.  Because that renders everything worthless, useless, insignificant.  Insignificance comes with a fear and uncertainty all its own.  It hurts to not be remembered, to be lost, abandoned, tossed aside without the least demonstrated concern.  That's how the world works though.  In a time of egotism and indifference, people just don't care.  It doesn't matter to them, it doesn't even really affect them.

Making headway through the river of time, no way to really get ahead, no way to truly stay behind.  Every pathway is different.  Every journey passes different points and ends in different places.  And because of this dissimilarity of experiences and life stories, it begins to be clear that none of it matters, nobody can really comprehend in the same way, and everything falls apart after coming together.

It's so temporary and transient and when it comes down to it, none of it matters.  So really, it doesn't make sense.  Caring doesn't make sense in situations where it doesn't make a difference.  Does living make sense when all there is to look forward to is death? 

Alone

What I find interesting is that once I get close to people or spend more time away from my home, the more I need to get time to myself and make time to think and just be alone.  It thus follows that I wind up working out more when I'm in relationships or getting very close to friends, or generally finding myself in more social situations throughout my life.

It's not a matter of disliking people or not wanting to be around them, but rather a need to have time to myself.  In a way, writing has the same effect, but I'm often talking or working at the same time as I'm writing, and thus the effect is lost.  When I'm working out on the other hand, I am completely alone, lost in a world of really loud music and the sort of really good pain that makes one particularly aware of their own body.

And that's precisely the way I like it.  When I work out, I don't keep track of time, I don't care who or what wants my attention at a given moment, and it really doesn't matter what's going on in the world around me.  At all.  It's nice.  It's time to myself, it's a way to listen to music, to get away from the flood of people passing through my life on a regular basis, and it allows me to really feel myself.

I like the isolation that working out gives me because it gives me a more acute sense of myself.  I mean that in a way that transcends the physical and enters also into the emotional.  Over time, I've gotten better at understanding my body, its limits, and its abilities.  Working out allows me to experience and assess all of that at once, to feel it and come to better understand myself as a result. 

When I work out, I don't have to pretend or care...I can't pretend or care about pretenses or appearances because it's not about that in the least.  It's about me.  Me, myself, and I.  Nothing less, nothing more.  And that's exactly the way I like it sometimes. 

Self-Improvement

In working out today, I had the chance to look back on a number of experiences in my life more or less recently and see just how much has changed in the past couple of years.  Much as it sounds cliche to say it, I really have come a long way.  Two years ago, I was naive, inexperienced, and really did in a way consider myself to be on top of the world.

Now, I've had the opportunity of an extensive and humbling experience to show me where I come out in this world.  I'm not any better than somebody else, nor am I any worse.  I am human, and flawed, and lost, and confused, and just like everybody else, I am imperfect and I make mistakes.  In a way, I think I might finally be learning to forgive myself.

In all seriousness, I've developed an increased awareness and greater sense of independence.  I've learned to motivate myself and to determine what really matters to me and balance out the consequences.  I've matured.  Significantly.  I never expected this when I made the decision to do what I did.  At best, I was hoping for this all to be a stepping-stone to a future.  I never imagined that it would be an end within itself.

But it really has been.  This has been one of the most wonderful (and terrible) experiences of my life thus far.  And it's not over yet.  None of it is.  That's a scary prospect.  But having been through what I have, I feel as though I might actually be able to handle it.  I think that's a good thing. 

Energy

It's strange.  I guess I say that rather often, really, but that doesn't change the fact that it really is quite strange.  What is it, you may ask?  Well, to be honest, I'm not entirely certain.  I guess, judging by the title of this post (and yes, I do typically select titles before writing posts), that it has something to do with my current level of energy. 

Thinking more extensively about it, I guess it really does.  My energy or mood or general sense of self has been all over the place lately.  Yesterday alone was an absolutely ridiculous roller-coaster of emotion.  Actually, so was today, just to a lesser extent.  I think the title covers it better than that though, more than just mood and emotion, it's been my level of energy.

Between needing time to be by myself and wanting time to be with other people and trying to manage significant work and stress and still trying to get a decent amount of sleep, it's complicated and quite confusing.  It's really a very effective way to leave me exhausted and completely devoid of energy.  That generally isn't a very good thing.

But lately, there's been enough going on that puts me in a good enough mood that some of it doesn't really seem to matter too much.  I guess it all balances out in the end.  Or maybe it doesn't.  But whatever.  I'm in a good mood right now, and I fully intend to enjoy it entirely while it lasts.  On that good note, good night. 

Uncertainty

Because I don't know.  I just don't.  I'm not sure what to say or when to say it or why I should even bother saying anything.  Is there any sense in it?  Presumably not.  Words, thoughts, feelings, emotions.  None of it makes the least bit of sense.  Perhaps it is merely the fact of indifference, or perhaps the association with bitterness and this nonsense of depression, and this misery that is comprised of inability to deal with anything.

It gets better, and it gets worse, and none of it makes the least bit of sense.  It doesn't really work.  I don't think there's a way to really fix any of this.  Is there anything to fix?  Is anything even broken?  Maybe the point is that it's not supposed to work or make sense or be reasonable.  The problem with that is that it's hard when it doesn't work, when it falls apart, when it seems like everything is about to end but you know it's not going to.

Is that the worst of it?  Or perhaps the set in stone certainty is the best part.  It is painful and miserable, but there is something in that pain and misery that is at least something.  It is better than nothing.  It provides a foundation, a starting point, a solid beginning that at least means something.  The beauty of pain is that it holds a weight that cannot really be shaken particularly well.

Maybe it's worse that the foundation is painful.  Maybe it's better because there is a comparison to everything else.  I don't know.  I just know that it's not simple, not alright, not pleasant.  It's tolerable, certainly.  But is it so wrong for me to want something to just work for once?  Why does it always hurt so damn much?  I don't understand that.

I'm sorry.  This whole post was a ranting compilation of various thoughts that have been in and out of my mind for a couple of days now.  It probably doesn't make sense.  Something's probably wrong if it does.  Or maybe that's just me.  Again, I apologize.  Hopefully, I will find something worthwhile to write about in the near future. 

Never Remember

I want to forget.  I want to know none of it.  I don't want to know or understand or feel or breathe it anymore.  I want it all to disappear.  It's not pleasant, it's not useful, it's nothing that I want.  I want to drown it out and forget that it exists.  To a certain extent, I want to erase it all.  But erasing things like that never works, memory isn't that simple, and some things are just hard to forget.

So I try as best as I can to make it disappear.  Sometimes it's through pleasure, other times through pain.  And perhaps what works best is that insufferable mixture of both, that repulsive contortion that becomes the object of desire.  It is intoxicating and convoluted and twisted and tempting.  More than anything else, it is nothing short of absolutely tempting.

It's easy to forget when you walk that line.  Everything fades into oblivion and nothing matters anymore.  Good or bad, wrong or right, they all become one and the same at the fine intersection of pleasure and pain.  Then it somehow gets better.  Not because any of it really is better or makes any more sense or disappears, but rather because something ceases to be so painful after a bit. 

Cover

The thing is, none of it is really fixed.  It's just temporarily covered over.  It can't be found that easily anymore.  The surface is smooth and gentle, free of the roughness and imperfections that characterized it previously.  But it's still there.  Underneath that calm surface is a sea more turbulent than it was before.  It still boils and rages, but now it can't be found nearly as easily as before.

The problem presents itself once the surface is breached, when the tranquility disappears and the turbulence takes over.  Because it is consistently ignored, avoided, covered over, it is that much worse once it finally comes out and reveals its true nature.  Perhaps it is all a mistake.  Perhaps attempting to make it better actually just makes it worse.

It may hurt less often, but it hurts that much worse when it does.  Everything is suddenly deeper.  It takes more effort to reach down to the pain and agony, but once the satisfaction and peace that covers it has subsided, if only temporarily, it all comes rushing back.  Maybe it's all wrong.  Maybe pretending it's not there even on occasion makes everything worse. 

Maybe this is all a terrible mistake.  Either way, it's a huge gamble, and parts of it are bad decisions, and parts of it are going to cause extreme pain.  Then why?  Perhaps the answer to that question doesn't even exist.  Perhaps it is all a vain attempt to pretend at everything.  But the lesson was learned long ago that pretending doesn't tend to make it any better.  The trend continues nonetheless.

Confusing

Today has been a very, very strange day.  It was good, then it was great, then it was tolerable, then it was terrible, then it was bad, then it was terrible, then it was better, and it ended on a good note, overall.  Regardless, that is a somewhat strange sequence.  Usually I don't fluctuate between that many emotions in a 16-hour period, I tend to keep it to about two.

I've also literally just had "dinner," which consisted of a small handful of trail mix, which is going to make some people reading this very, very dissatisfied with me and my decisions.  I find myself questioning them rather often these days, as well.  That somehow doesn't seem to be stopping me from making foolish ones.  This is an issue, one that I should probably try to fix.

Then again, I'm happy right now.  Maybe I wasn't earlier today, and maybe things don't work or aren't perfect or hurt or suck.  But that's okay.  It happens.  All I can do is try to make the most of it.  So I guess that's what I'm trying to do. 

My apologies for the terrible post, but I started it 20 minutes before midnight and needed to crank something out to keep up with my own requirements.  I know it's poorly written and all, but hopefully I'll have something better to say in the near future. 

Obligatory

So...it's almost the end of the day.  I haven't blogged yet.  I guess that means I should really put something up now, huh?  Oops.  I started writing this about half an hour ago.  I still haven't really said anything.  So, uh, before I started writing this, I knew I wouldn't really have much to write about.  I guess a lot has changed in the past two days...I guess.

I'm happy.  And that is a tremendous change from the way things have been recently.  On the other hand, it leaves me without a lot of bitter, angry, depressing rants to write.  Which leaves me significantly lacking in material for this blog post.  It's also approaching a time when it becomes unreasonable for me to expect to coherently write anything.

So, um...  I still don't really have anything to write.  I'm just really happy.  And I'm too busy smiling and bouncing up and down with joy to actually figure out something really worthwhile to write about.  Yeah.  I'm happy.  I'm filling up space now.  But I'm really happy.  I think that's just about it for now.  I've repeated a bunch of nonsense already, so I'll just stop now. 

Belong

I feel like I don't belong there anymore.  And for a few more hours, I can indeed still say there rather than here, which I'll take full advantage of while I can.  It's like this summer, without having really changed anything monumentally, has changed absolutely everything.  It used to feel like home, now the concept doesn't seem to carry this association in my mind.

It's not like it was a year ago.  I was just dreading it then.  Now, I'm not so much dreading it as preparing to feel out of place.  Last time, it wasn't such a sensation.  It was a steady and constant irritation with everyone and everything around me, it wasn't...I don't know how to explain.  It still felt like somewhere I should be and somewhere I should go, even if I wasn't happy.  That's not the case anymore.  This time around, it feels like a place I don't want to be and shouldn't go, happy or otherwise.

And I'm not sure what to make of that.  Maybe this summer really has changed me, even though it hasn't really felt like it.  But I guess, looking back on it, I could say the same exact thing of last summer.  In the moment, I hadn't felt that different, but considering the changes I can see now that took place as a result, it definitely did alter a lot.

Changing or not changing isn't the problem though.  It's a matter of feeling welcome somewhere.  Even though I wasn't happy last year, it felt like in a way, it was waiting for me to come back.  This year, it feels like I have to shove through iron doors with gritty hinges that don't want to open to get back in.  I don't know if I want to do that.  And the funny part is, that in a matter of hours I will.  I don't have much of a choice, as it is. 

Reply

You look at me as though I'm supposed to say something to that, as though I'm supposed to phrase a response.  But there's nothing I can say.  You stand there, and you look at me, and it's as though in your vision, I am supposed to wither away and become feeble and weak.  But I'm too proud for that.  I'm not about to let you have your way.

I want to scream at you.  I want to say all of the awful words that I have been hiding inside myself, shielding from you.  All of those words that came in fleeting moments late at night, when I was alone, and you didn't comfort me, I want to throw in your face.  I want to see you wither away and become feeble and weak.  I want to hurt you.

Like you hurt me.

But I'm too proud for that.  I'm too selfish to let you see me lose control, to lose control at all over you.  I'm thoroughly too arrogant and irritating, and absolutely full of loathing to respond in any way to your provocations.  You want me to throw myself down and cry and beg for forgiveness.  And I won't give you the satisfaction of seeing me do that.

So I stand there.  In silence.  Glaring at you.  I probably look hurt, like I want to apologize but don't have the words or fear it wouldn't be enough.  I promise, if I had an apology I felt I owed you, you would have heard it long ago.  I'm waiting for you to figure out what to do when I don't conform to your predictions, your expectations, when I don't fall into the standard response of that psychoanalysis that you claim to have performed.

Because the premise of your words to me, is in that I will react, and feel bad, and ask for something.  But you misjudged me.  I'm not that sort of person.  Maybe I was once, but I'm not anymore.  So I'm not going to drown in guilt or grovel before you.  I'm going to let you make the biggest mistake of your life by expecting an apology from me when really, you owe me one.

Silence.

This is my reply.  This is my confrontation.  But this is definitely your loss.  

Mornings

Eyes snap open.  It's already light, but still early.  The end of summer has that effect.  It gets light at 6 am and invades through the paper-thin blinds that serve only to block the view and not the light.  The glaring red digits of the alarm clock read 6:32, in that blocky print that is customary for digital clocks. 

28 minutes.

It's going to be another hellish day.  It always is.  No number of people or activities or encouragements can change the dread and anxiety building up. 

6:34
26 minutes.

What happens if I don't get up?  If I just lay in this bed under the covers and ignored the brash alarm.  If I let it go off until someone else stopped it.  Would it matter?  Who would be the first to give me a lecture because I didn't show up when I was supposed to? 

6:35
25 minutes.

Please don't.  Please let it just stop.  Pleading with time isn't going to do any good, but that's not a good enough reason to stop.  No more minutes ticking by, no 7:00, no getting up, getting dressed, dragging myself around for another day of hell.

6:38
22 minutes.

I can't.  I'll get up and drag myself through another hellish day and cry myself to sleep and do it all over again.  And again.  And again.  How much is too much?  How much can I hate it, fear it, agonize over it, before it tears me apart?

And they wonder why I don't want to go back.  Maybe because every morning for a number of months a year ago was spent locked in that exact same thought process.  Maybe because part of me hates the circumstances that are a breeding ground for such thoughts, much as another part of me loves them for everything else.  Maybe because those minutes before the alarm rings are among the worst parts of my life.  Maybe because I never want to have to do that again.  Maybe because I don't want to feel myself torn to shreds by circumstances outside of my control every single morning before I even have to do anything.

Does that make a little bit more sense now?

Damn...

I really hope this isn't what I think it might be.  A week earlier, that would have been ideal.  A week later, that I could deal with.  But right now?  Right in the middle of absolutely everything?  I can't deal with this at present.  I really can't.  I don't have the time to be down or out or incapable, and I cannot be questioned thirty times over as to whether or not I am alright.

I'm still sitting here thinking maybe this is one of those things that goes away the next morning instead of getting worse... But how often does that actually happen?  Especially considering the fact that everything lines up properly, too.  I mean, I realized this was probable (not just possible, probable), but...damn it.  And hey, maybe I am just paranoid.  Maybe I'm exaggerating it in my mind and it'll be over in a few days and it won't be what I think it might be. 

That doesn't make me any less paranoid or freaked out or anxious at the moment.  I can't afford for this to get in my way right now, not with everything that is going to be happening or needs to happen in the next week.  If this is what I'm guessing, then they can't know because of one thing, and they can't know because of another, and they can't know because I'd never hear the end of it, and she can't know because she'd just give me absolute hell.

Absolute hell is the last thing I need right now.  This past summer has been close enough to that.  I'm probably blowing this out of proportion and it's probably nothing (or so I hope), but this is me...I can't help but dread the worst possible case.  Yes, a bit irrational, but it is what it is.  So now I sit back and wait for something to happen to let me know whether I can stop freaking out or not. 

God damn it, I hate this.

Beautiful

In the reflection off the screen of my digital camera when I take a picture.  That's the only time I ever allow myself to think that there's even the slightest chance that I'm beautiful.  When all I see is a portion of lips, a corner of an eye, a stray lock of hair.  That's when I let myself think that maybe, just maybe, I'm actually worth something.

Because then you can see pieces of me.  And only pieces.  They're incomplete.  They don't tell the whole story.  They just shows you one small rectangle of me.  A rectangle that may be just slightly beautiful, that might actually be appealing.  Those little pieces, that's all anyone should ever know of me.  They don't express me, they are not me, they are just a small portion.

In those rectangles, you can't see the pain, you can't find the self-loathing, you can't feel the agony.  Those little rectangles, the expressions they reflect, the moments they capture for my eyes alone, those are the only things that everyone should see but no one ever will.  They tell a story I like.  They hide the bitter, twisted plot.  They don't illustrate my mistakes before the world.

Sometimes, looking at that reflection, I actually feel complete; like maybe everything is going to be alright, maybe I'm not a failure, maybe, just maybe, I might be beautiful.  And then the moment is over, the picture is taken, and I put the camera away, thinking, "who the hell am I kidding?"

Complete

Now it hurts.  But it's not the miserable agony of not being able to take it anymore.  It's something I can handle, something that makes a part of me feel more complete.  I don't want it to end.  I just want it balanced at that precarious edge where it's almost too much to bear, yet still enough for me to feel the poignant subtleties of each sensation causing it.

This is never going to be good for me.  But in a way, it's one of those sensations I've grown to love.  I feel comfortable in it.  That's the way I am--I either over-do it and hate myself or I under-do it and find myself right here once again, in pain, but content with the fact.  I'm not sure what to make of that fact, nor how it really changes anything.

I don't have the self-control to under-do it most of the time.  I know I'm not about to change this.  I don't need a middle ground, I've never been much of one for that balance or even dispersal.  I like my extremes.  If I manage to maintain this one, it's not going to end well.  But nothing is ever really going to end well, so I'm not particularly worried. 

Must

So here I am again.  I don't want to write.  But I'm making myself do it anyway, because that's the agreement I came to with myself so that I would actually do something.  As a result, here I am, writing.  Even though I have absolutely nothing to say and absolutely no desire to say anything at all, I'm still sitting here, pouring out cliche words into poorly organized sentences to fill up space.

I want to be a month from here right now.  I want the next month to just pass before my eyes in a moment and be done with already, completely gone.  I wouldn't mind it as memories, but I certainly don't want to go through it, not right now.  I'm in the wrong mood for any of this.  But good god what would I be if that wasn't the case?  It's all making me twitchy and exhausted and miserable (as if I wasn't enough of those already).

And I feel bad.  Not in the guilty sense but in the opposite-of-good sense.  I feel mildly sick, bitterly depressed, and horribly not looking forward to the next month.  I'm tired.  I don't want to deal with this right now or ever, really.  I know I've been writing pretty much the same thing for the past week (probably a bit more, actually), but I don't care right now.  It is what it is, and I don't give enough of a damn to change it.  That realization (that I've only had about a hundred times a day lately) is my cue to shut up.  I'll do that now. 

Cracks

I'm tired, and I'm depressed, and I just want it all to disappear right now.  I don't know if I want any of this anymore, but I know I don't want to have to think about it anymore.  I wish I could sit down and write something profound right now, make something worthwhile out of the single sentences of brilliance that have been floating in and out of my head day after day that I've been sitting in the car, watching the world flash past my eyes.

I'm not in the right state of mind for brilliance or for eloquence or for reason even, really.  My mind has been going non-stop, everything has been hurting and breaking and shattering and I couldn't stop any of it.  I barely feel it anymore.  Everything inside me is a mess right now.  There's no way to sort it out, to make it clear, to make any of it any better.  It's too late.  It's been too late for a while, and I've been pretending that it wasn't.

So here I am, sitting in bed, wondering what to do next.  I'm barely holding myself together.  I'm about to slip up and everything is going to absolutely fall apart.  What do I do then?  Or what do I do now?  I can't do this.  I really can't.  Nothing makes sense.  I can't think.  I have absolutely no idea what's even happening anymore.  All I know is that it's falling apart and I don't know how to stop it.

Help.  Please.

Optimism

Maybe it will all get better.  Maybe it will work out.  I was so broken last night from all of this.  I was tired, depressed, crushed, frustrated.  But today is better.  I've done what I can, I've fixed as much as I can.  I feel better about all of it.  Yes, this has significantly bothered me.  It's made me question a lot and brought me back to a place I had though I'd moved past.

But I think I'm alright now.  I've stopped shaking.  I can smile again.  I can think and talk about things other than this, finally.  It's significantly drained my mind the last couple of days, but it seems to be drawing to a close, finally.  On the plus side, it's also helped me get more prepared for the future.  I made a lot of mistakes in this regard without even realizing it, and now I've fixed a lot of them.

I know there's still a chance things will get more messed up before they get better.  I know it can be a lot worse, especially if the situation isn't exactly what it appears to be.  But for right now, I have it under control.  For the moment, I'm comfortable with how the situation is working itself out.  I'm calm enough to get to sleep tonight, hopefully enough to enjoy my day tomorrow, that sort of thing.  It feels like I can finally see a light at the end of this tunnel.  And I've been really needing that.

I know my thoughts on this, my emotions, my reactions to the tiniest changes in circumstance, may all change infinitely quickly.  But for the moment, it's alright.  I'm fine.  Hopefully, it stays that way.  And if it doesn't, I figure I'll be able to deal with it and get through it.  That's all that really matters, in the end.  But I'm sitting here and finally enjoying this vacation without a tremendous undertone of panic.  It's a nice change of pace. 

"Goodbye. Forever."

Dear you,

You know who you are.  Or you would if you knew about this blog.  You'd know by the title of this post and you'd know by what else I'm going to say.  But you don't.  You're never going to read this.  And I write it fully knowing that.  I should still write it, though...or maybe I shouldn't, but here I am anyway, with nothing more to do than write this letter to you that you will never read.

It sounds so polite, right now, so civil.  But that's the way I've always treated you, even after everything that happened.  Even when you started treating me as though I was worth absolutely nothing, even after you broke every ounce of trust I ever placed in you, even when you started spreading my secrets and telling lies about me, I still treated you with respect.  Perhaps respect is the wrong word.  I didn't do the same things to you that you did to me.  I left you alone.

When we broke up, well...that in itself is a complicated story.  I was cheating on you.  I knew that day, when you called, that if we went out to talk, we would end up broken up by the end of the conversation.  I let you rant at me, I let you talk about how you didn't know what you wanted with me anymore, I let you tell me how you weren't sure if you should stay with me or if I was enough for you.  I let you say it all.  I gave you the chance to break up with me.

But you didn't.  You spent an hour of my time, telling me about how you weren't sure you were happy with the relationship and how maybe you should have walked away.  That's when it hit me.  I knew you weren't going to break up with me.  And I'd realized by then that I didn't even want to be with you anymore.  So I said, "I'm walking away now, before I say anything that I might regret."  Then you said, "Goodbye.  Forever."  And I told you that it wasn't forever, that it was the end of a relationship, not a friendship.

You know, I guess you were right.  That day, you'd gone to my best friend and said that you loved me...but you'd never told me that, and by then, it was too late.  And after that, it all went downhill, you started spilling out everything I'd trusted you with, and trying to hurt me.  I was such a mess then.  You'd hurt me so badly, and I hadn't even realized it.  Then you hurt me more.  I can't believe I was ever stupid enough to listen to you, to want to be with you, any of it. 

I never even loved you.  At one point, I tried to convince myself I did.  Thank god I never succeeded, thank god I never said those words to you because you're not worth it.  You never were.  Even before you started trying to destroy me, you weren't worth it.  You messed up my life so badly.  In a way, I'll admit it, it's my own fault.  I wanted to go out with you, I was willing to give you a chance, I stopped listening to my friends, I let it get to the point where you could hurt me.

But I'm tired of taking the blame for all of the pain you put me through.  You messed me up so badly.  I'm still trying to put myself together, and it's really damn hard.  I despise what I'm going through right now because of you.  I don't hate you.  I hate what I've become because of you.  They were all right.  I am better than you, I was always too good for you.  It really is a shame I never listened. 

You know what, you said it.  Those were your words, not mine.  I was willing to stay friends with you.  But you messed it up for yourself.  I really wish you'd just stuck to what you'd said and let us go our separate ways.  I wish you'd never said another word to or about me after you said goodbye to me forever.  I wish I'd never been stupid enough to have anything to do with you, not to mention date you.  I did.  Now I'm paying for it.  Now I'm really, seriously paying for it.

I'm stronger than you.  I don't need to stoop down to your level to keep living my life.  But the problem is, you won't let me live it myself.  You keep showing up and trying to undermine me.  I'm done trying to pretend this is alright.  Because right now, it's not.  This is too far.  I don't know what I'm supposed to do from here,  but I'm done with it.  You have messed me up so much, you have broken me in so many ways, you have controlled my life to a point that is absolutely ridiculous.  Something is going to change about this.  I will do it, one way or another.

Goodbye.  Forever.
--Me.

Enough

I'm tired.  I'm stuck in a hotel.  The internet here really seriously sucks.  And my life is still being screwed with in ways I do not approve of.  This is absolutely ridiculous.  I'm so damn sick of it.  I'm not frustrated or worried or upset anymore, I'm just really, really pissed.  I don't want to say anything or write anything, and really, I'd quite like to punch a wall right now.

But I'm not going to.  Because that would be an inappropriate reaction.  That and I don't feel like paying for room damages in the hotel. That's rather irrelevant though.  Actually, pretty much anything and everything is absolutely irrelevant at this point.  But I still have to write something.  And I don't much feel like turning my anger into anything coherent.

So this is my incoherent absolutely nonsense rant.  Once I calm down, I'll have a semi-reasonable letter.  No, it won't be reasonable in the least.  It'll be long and angry and rambling.  But it will be a letter.  Frankly, one that could be quite simply expressed in the form of a well-placed stab to the gut.  Since that's not a legal option though, I'll stick to my bitter letter...whenever I calm down. 

Unease

I'll be honest here.  It bothers me.  It makes me nervous and uncertain and somewhat afraid.  I can feel the muscles of my jaw clench and the muscles in my limbs twitch and the breath in my lungs become shallow and uneven.  Yes, it bothers me.  I know it shouldn't affect me this much.  Especially not now that I've done absolutely everything that I can possibly do about it.

Now, it's time to step back and take a deep breath.  But for some reason, it's really hard for me to do that.  This really bothers me, even though I know it shouldn't anymore.  This is one of those problems that I have--things bother me far more than they should, I feel like I lose control over my entire life no matter how small the disruption is.  Then it becomes difficult for me to distract myself and continue doing things as I should.  I become paranoid. 

That's the state I'm at right now: paranoia.  I've reasoned through this, gone through all of the rational thoughts that should help me calm down...and it's helped a bit, but only a bit.  That's the problem.  I'm still nervous and uneasy and worried about it.  I don't know if I want to talk about it or pretend it doesn't exist...either way, it seems to be completely eating away at my mind.  And I know, I know it shouldn't affect me this much...which is why it bothers me that much more that it does.

But in its own way, writing about it is helping somewhat.  I'm getting my thoughts down.  It seems to make the rational thought process more real.  It gives me a better sense of control again.  I'm still not completely relaxed.  It does still bother me.  But on the whole, I guess I feel better.  This is one of those things I know will pass with time, so long as the actual source of this anxiety stops, which I really hope it will. 

Nine more days.  I'm fairly certain things will get better then.  I will be around people again.  I will have less time to worry about senseless nonsense like this.  I will be more certain of the fact that this really is over.  But until then, I just have to take deep breaths, distract myself, and hope I can relax enough to sleep.  The more time separates me from such things, the better I feel.  So now I wait. 

Push Through The Pain

I've often been one to test myself.  It used to be a thing of competition, but as time went on, that decreased in importance to me.  It became more a matter of finding my limits, seeing just how much I could do.  The easiest way to do that, of course, was to push myself physically.  I would work out, run hard, do everything I could until my lungs burned and my legs felt too heavy to move.  Then I would do more.

This is how I tested myself and how I improved myself.  I sought out pain in order to conquer it.  I enjoyed the battle against myself, the fight where nobody could win.  Lately, I've found that I still enjoy it.  But more recently, I haven't had the need to seek out the pain.  It's often there, in one form or another.  My joints are stiff, my muscles are sore, and I'm out of shape. 

On the one hand, it's miserable.  It hurts.  On the other hand, though, that presents me with the opportunity to prove myself still further.  Instead of testing myself only when the mood struck, every day has sometimes become a battle to keep going, to not falter, to not let my weaknesses be perceived.  Maybe it makes me stronger.  Maybe it just shows how weak I've become.

Strength and weakness are relative statements, though.  So days like today, when it hurts to stand, sometimes even to breathe, and I still do more than that...I feel accomplished, I feel strong, like I did something and pushed myself, which I guess I did. 

Alright, I'll be honest: I've had this post in mind since mid-morning, I just didn't have time to write then.  Right now, my mind is preoccupied and I'm not in the best mood, so whatever I had intended to write isn't coming out nearly as well as I would like it to.  My sincerest apologies for that.  I hope I have something better to say tomorrow. 

Disappear

I'm tired.  I'm sick of this.  All I want to do is curl up in a corner and be reclusive and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.  And of course, I can't do that because I'm stuck in a hotel room with two other people besides.  This is pretty much the last thing I needed.  I want to get away from it all.  I want to be completely alone.  I don't want to think.

Perhaps most of all, I want to forget that the last two years of my life even happened.  Any of it.  I want to make it all disappear.  The bad, and the good with it.  I don't care.  I don't want to think about it.  I don't want to be aware of how hellish my life is right now as a result.  I know perfectly well that it wouldn't be any different if those days didn't exist or if those moments hadn't happened or if those people weren't who they were.  I'd still be pathetic, miserable, and depressed.  But that doesn't stop me from wanting it all gone. 

Honestly, I don't even have anything to say anymore.  Or rather I've got plenty, but I'm not going to say any of it.  I give up.  I'm so sick of it all.  I needed that.  I needed at least to know it, to believe it.  I didn't say it because it was true, I said it because I needed it to be true.  And I didn't get it.  Not then, at least.  I still don't have it.  So now it doesn't matter whether I need it or not.  It's too late. 

Sometimes I wish I would actually believe that.  Because I know it's not the truth.  I wonder how different things would be if it was.  I'm tired, I'm hurt, I'm bitter, I'm resentful.  The last thing I want to do is think about any of it, but how am I supposed to do that when it's the only thing on my mind?  Yes, I realize exactly what I'm doing.  I often wish I wasn't doing it.  And I pretty much have no idea why I'm even doing it anymore.  All I know is that I'm still here, still doing this, god knows why.

Yes, this is more angst and depression.  I don't care.  I've got nothing else to say, especially when I really don't want to say much of anything at all.  I'm not stupid.  I get it.  That doesn't mean that I'm going to say anything.  But I've already repeated everything I meant to say, so I'll stop now.  My apologies. 

Details and Technicaities

So...this is going to be yet another one of those purely logistical posts.  I'm leaving for a so-called "vacation" today.  I'll be gone for a little over a week.  I should have internet access every day and thus should be able to post, but I can't promise anything because I may have restrictions imposed upon me by other people who do not appreciate being kept up late at night by my typing.

With that in mind, I can't promise a daily post, but can promise that I'll write when I can.  I figure I don't actually have to write this post.  I'll probably figure out some way to blog every day with no problem and even if I didn't, I could just explain it all at the end.  But that's about all I have to write about right now, so yeah, I'm back to just filling my self-imposed requirement for writing.

Sure, I've got plenty to say.  But that's all being directed where it's due and is not material that needs to be published here.  I could write something very direct on the matter or something vaguely mystifying, perhaps even pretty in its clouding of the truth.  However, I have no desire to.  This is something better dealt with outside the reign of my blog, so that is how I will proceed to deal with it. 

Wrong

Everything is going wrong right now.  Everything.  I'm in about 30 different kinds of pain, people are mad at me for things that aren't my fault, all of the things I've worked so hard to barely keep together are falling apart, and I can't even get enough control over myself to even hope that I can get through this just fine.  So here I am, sitting at work, headphones in for the first time in hell knows how long, blasting Okay, I Feel Better Now, even though...well, I really don't.

I know nobody likes reading these depressing, angsty posts I write occasionally that are just doom and gloom, but right now, I don't care.  I feel like hell.  I feel like absolutely everything is about to fall apart all around me and break and shatter and collapse.  And I can't keep it together right now.  Sure, I want things to be better, I want to be happier.  But what am I supposed to do when I'm in pain and elements out of my control are causing me to implode and I don't want to create a further mess for everyone around me because of the emotions that I'm bad enough at controlling as is?

So I'm going to sit here.  And I'm going to write.  And I'm going to pretend that I don't want to cry.  And I'm going to do what I have to in order to survive this.  And I'm going to just deal with it.  And I'm going to pretend that I'm not upset.  And I'm going to pretend that it doesn't hurt me when I lash out stupidly or lose control of everything.  Because what choice to I really have?  If I want this to get better, I have to get through the hell first.  That's what I'm trying to do.

It's still falling apart, it's still a mess, it still hurts like all hell.  I don't know how to fix it.  So I'm trying.  I'm really fucking trying.  And it's not working.  Again.  I just don't know what to do anymore.  Maybe thinking I could actually improve something was all a huge mistake.  Maybe I shouldn't have allowed myself to hope that I might be strong enough to actually manage reasonably well in my life despite this depression, this mess, this senseless, meaningless thing that life is.

What's worse?  Yesterday I was asked what I fear most.  My answer: myself.  Because in the end, I can't lay the blame for this on the world or on depression or on people around me or on anything else...it all comes down to me.  I'm the one who did all of this.  I broke myself.  I refused the help when I could have gotten up.  I'm the one who sabotages all of my own chances at happiness and success.  I'm the only one with the power to hurt myself at this point, and that's terrifying.  It's absolutely terrifying because I know this, and no better because I know that I do just that. 

Yeah.  I know.  I should shut up.  I should stop whining and just fix it.  But it's like I was saying a couple of days ago about vicious cycles...yes, I got myself here, I broke myself, and now I'm hurt, and that makes me hate myself a little bit more and that makes me break myself further, and it just goes on and gets worse.  So now I'm trapped.  I don't know how to get out.  And I can't ask for help because this is all my fault--I got myself in here, and I can't burden anyone else in trying to get out.

I guess that in tapping frantically at my keyboard to get emotions out has calmed me down, if only a bit.  I won't go back, I won't delete what I wrote.  I'm not sure why, but it seems like something I should preserve.  So what happens now?  What do I do with myself?  Deep breaths and pages of angst only help so much.  In the end, they don't really make anything better.  So what does?  How can I fix everything that I have messed up? 

I need to find something that works.  Because this clearly doesn't.  Whatever this may even be.  Maybe I just need to learn to calm down and be less emotional.  I used to be good at that sort of thing.  So what happened now that I'm no longer capable of dealing with it?  Something triggered this, and I'm not sure what...although I have my guesses.  Actually, I think I'm going to go sort my thoughts on this in a more private place right now.  Depending on what comes out of it, I may or may not end up posting the results (knowing me, I'm betting on not, but there is always that chance).

You're Too Young To Not Believe

I used to believe that if I worked hard and tried hard and made sure to do everything right, then everything would turn out just fine.  But of course, that's not how life works.  It never has been, and it never will be.  Sometimes, no matter how much you do perfectly, everything is still going to fall apart.  The thing is, things happen that we weren't expecting.  We falter, we fall apart, we give in where we know we shouldn't, we give up when we could have made something of ourselves.

Yeah, I've made mistakes.  There's no sense in denying that, no sense in even trying to pretend that's not the case.  It's something human.  We all do it occasionally.  You could probably make the argument I've done it knowingly more than most.  And perhaps I have.  That's fine, I don't mind.  Forgive and forget, so the saying goes.  I've never been one for forgetting though.  Lately, I've been learning to at least forgive myself...sometimes.  But I don't think I'll ever really be able to forget.  I'm probably expected to be learning something at that rate from all of these mistakes.  I can't say that I am or that I have.

No, that's a bit of a lie.  I most certainly have learned something, many things really.  But they're not particularly likely to stop me from making mistakes in the future.  Why?  I'm not entirely sure.  Part of it is curiosity, a certain fascination with imperfection.  Another part is likely to be a way of living on the edge, seeing how close I can get to bringing the world crashing down around me without actually doing it.  I have a somewhat bitter and masochistic sense of humor in that regard.

The thing is, this is where it starts to get real.  These next two weeks...this is what hits me the hardest, hurts me the most, causes me to wake up in agony, and wonder why the hell I even try anymore.  Now, it's real.  I know what's going to be happening and when it's going to be happening.  It's no longer this abstract idea I've been aiming for throughout all of two months.  It's real.  So I begin to dread.

A year ago, this almost completely destroyed me.  I spent these equivalent two weeks without a single night of restful sleep.  I was completely and utterly torn to pieces by a bitter combination of depression and terror.  If I've been a mess this summer, I was a hundred times more so for those weeks a year ago.  I don't know how I did it, but I do know that getting through it made it somehow alright.  I know this.  Consciously, I am completely aware of this fact and entirely prepared to deal with the situation.

But the mess of mental instability that is at my core is continually pushing me into panic.  It's illogical and unreasonable, but the fact remains: I am absolutely terrified.  That's how I know I'm going to spend the next two weeks completely dreading everything that I have been looking forward to for the past two months.  I've got quite a few issues that need to be addressed, and as time goes on, things like this make it increasingly obvious that this all needs to be dealt with.  Preferably soon.

Get Away

I need to get out of all of this. 
I need a break. 
Something clearly doesn't work. 
My hands have been shaking all day. 
And I'm fairly certain it's not just sleep-deprivation.

I just need one week. 
One week to myself.
Completely alone.
I need to get away from it all.
I can't keep sitting in front of my computer like this.
I can't keep waiting for something to happen.

Nothing is going to just happen.
It's not about to fall out of the sky.
Things fall together and fall apart.
Everything appears to be doing the latter right now.
Everything.

It doesn't make sense.
None of it.
Not that it ever really did.
Maybe if I care less, it would work more.
Even though it's illogical.
But nothing logical seems to work anyhow.

This is all irrelevant.
It's just more senseless rambling.
That probably shouldn't be written.
Or certainly not posted.
But it's not like I ever take my own advice.

I should just give up on this.
I'm not about to.
Maybe that's good.
Or perhaps it's foolish.
It's definitely foolish.
 
Enough senseless rambling.
I'm done now.
Sorry.

Effect

I've been aware for a significant while now that life is completely and utterly pointless.  I don't believe in a deity or an afterlife, I do not believe in trends of reincarnation, I am not believer of karma or much of anything for that matter.  It's easier for me to think of things I don't believe than things I do.  That's the sort of person I've always been...more or less skeptical and rather detached.  Perhaps that's why existentialism initially appealed to me.  It threw out the necessity of a meaning for life and allowed one to just be. 

The problem with just being, though, is that it's meaningless and pointless and gives one absolutely no reason to live.  So what am I to make of that?  I don't believe in an inherent reason to live, but nor do I want to continue this pointless trend of existence.  For that reason, this has been a question that has plagued me for a significant while.  Why should I? 

The answer isn't simple or particularly logical.  I can't say I've really found a concrete one yet, either.  I've had thoughts ranging from why not? to because I can to might as well make the most of it.  And I'm still living rather in the balance between all of those and more, although I guess the last one describes it most accurately of the three. Really, the way I see it is that I've got this one life, x number of years.  While I'm here, I might as well enjoy it, might as well make something of it, might as well do something, anything.

I guess that's where people come in.  People interest me.  I can't say I particularly like them, I rather dislike the majority.  However, there are people whose company I enjoy and people I actually care about (believe it or not).  Those are the people I'm willing to put in effort for.  The vast majority of the world's population can be making stupid decisions and throwing away their lives all they want, I won't give a damn.  When people I'm close to start doing that...then it's an entirely different story.  Then I care. 

The thing is, I know that life is impermanent.  It ends.  No questions about it (my lack of belief in an afterlife makes that pretty clear).  And I know that I won't be remembered, probably not even by the people I was close to.  I'm a terrible person to attempt conversations with.  I'm not the least bit interesting, and I don't much like idle chatter.  That's probably part of being an introvert and probably why I have comparatively few friends, but I don't mind. 

I used to always believe I was really bad at dealing with people, too.  I didn't know how to comfort anybody.  I had no idea what to do or say when someone was upset.  That's probably one of the most significant ways in which the past two years have really changed me.  I've started to understand that all you really have to do is care about someone, and that in itself will get you 90% of the way there.  I still don't really know per se what to do when people are upset, but for some reason, they come to me.  And then it doesn't matter if I know or not, what matters is what I do.


[As an aside, I just realized how inconsistent the train of thought is here, please bear with me and I may or may not be able to get it straightened out suitably enough to be understood.] 

I can't say that I do much to help, either.  I'm just there when people need me.  It's not a special skill, it's not something you need to learn how to do, it's really not that complicated.  Which is why I'm so easily replaceable.  If I'm not there to listen to someone, they'll find someone else.  If I can't be their shoulder to cry on, they will make their way to another.  I'm not one for monumental actions or life-altering events.  And that's why I'll be so simply forgotten.  I've come to terms with that.  I don't mind it. 

But the fact remains that I'm still here for now, and will be for however many days, weeks, months, or years more.  In that time, I'm not going to change the world, I can't say I particularly want to, either.  I'm not going to change lives in any way that anybody else couldn't.  But while I'm here, I might as well make it count for something.  I might as well be the one to listen, the shoulder to cry on, because I care, because I can, and because I might as well be doing something useful because I have nothing else better to do.

I'm fairly certain that this post still doesn't make any sense.  I don't really care.  I write for myself, anyway.  Maybe one day I'll find something brilliant in these pages and pages of writing I've committed myself to.  Maybe I won't.  Once again, it doesn't much matter.  I know this sentiment isn't unique, I know it's not the first time I've mentioned it, and that's just fine.  I wanted to put something down in writing, and this is what was on my mind.  Simple as that. 

Cycles

I'm not entirely certain why or how I ended up there, but I found myself sitting in front of one of my favorite databases half an hour ago, looking up the correlation between relationships and sleep.  As it stands, finding the keywords for such a search is less than simple, and many of the papers that appeared were far from what I sought.  I did, however, run across some interesting things along the way.

One of the studies I found noted a relationship between insomnia and other conditions including anxiety and depression.  Another one observed the pattern between disputes among couples and how well each partner slept.  Not surprisingly, increased disputes led to worse sleep led to increased disputes.  And it's the same thing with anxiety or depression...being upset leads to sleeping poorly leads to feeling more upset.

So once again, there are two more examples of vicious cycles--situations in which everything deteriorates, conditions which are hard to break, and a confining spiral of doom (melodramatic though that may sound).  That made me wonder...are there even any cycles that aren't vicious?  I mean, beyond the water cycle and all of those that are drilled into everyone's head since middle school.

It seems as though everything points out how the world is going to bits, how life is crashing down around us and we're trapped in this cycle, unable to change anything.  There has to be some antithesis to this, though.  Everything can't perpetually be going downhill.  Yes, I know, entropy.  I've studied it enough.  But still, entropy doesn't seem to be the most reasonable policy when dealing with human emotions and thoughts, it would seem to lead to far more suicides than it actually does (feel free to correct me if I'm wrong).

So what's the counterweight?  Something balances all of it out.  Something keeps it all from falling apart and really spiraling down.  Is it a series of cycles that isn't vicious and leads to well-being (philanthropy comes to mind, but I don't know that its magnitude can equal that of depression or even come close)?  Or is there at least some linear force?  There appears to be, certainly.  But now I want to know, what is it?

Off

Something is off.  I don't know what it is.  Since I got out of the shower nearly two hours ago, I've been twitchy as hell.  It's been hard to concentrate, difficult to think straight.  I've been snapping at the people around me with no good reason.  Actually, I've been doing it with absolutely no reason at all.  No matter what I try to do, I'm still twitchy and irritated and just completely off.

That's obviously not helping me come up with anything worthwhile to write, either.  I mean, at one point it hit the state where I was just sitting here hyperventilating for no reason.  Dinner didn't make anything better.  Solitaire hasn't helped one bit.  I wish I could curl up and sleep right now, but that's completely impossible in my current state.

And I'm still as tired as I've ever been thanks to the fact that this weekend has left me worse off in terms of sleep than most weekdays average out to.  So even though it's probably not going to work, I'm going to go try to read a book, maybe.  Or maybe I'll just sit here playing more solitaire even though it doesn't help.  Either way, I'm not capable of writing right now.  My apologies.