2004-10-16
Wistful: See MEGAN
hearing: The Wreathe and the Chain - The Autumns
reading: The First Men In The Moon by H.G. Wells
feeling: "Come fly to me, fly forever hold me hold me..."
- wist�ful
- 1 : full of yearning or desire tinged with melancholy; also : inspiring such yearning
2 : musingly sad : pensive
3: Megan also see: Minja
I'm doing much better. My sleeping patterns are still very shaky, but I am no longer half so depressed and angry. I think my hormones calmed down some. I swung back into a normal temperment. That's not to say that I am brimming with happiness, joy or ecstasy, rather I am still very gloomy and melancholy; but not perpetually near tears.
I think it's comforting to know that I can pull through troubles without anyone else's help sometimes. Although I'm afraid that this victory might encourage me to do that all the time, and when a person becomes so viciously self dependent and withdrawn, good things never happen.
Today was a gentle, kitsch, normal day. The kind of day which almost makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. The kind of normal which is perfectly acceptable and entirely necessary to hold down a person's sanity and regulate their mood.
A day which starts with breakfast in bed. Albeit a breakfast which upsets a delicate stomach, but it's the thought and emotional connotation surrounding the practice that counts, not the food itself. A glass dinner goblet of orange juice, and a glass dinner goblet of milk, a store bought cinnamon roll, a neatly presented cheese omelet, and a little vase with a pretty peach rose and baby's breath; neatly arranged on a tray. The adornment of a flower is a tepid reassurance of affection and life in the upheaval of a sleep heavy conscious, filled with recollections of dreams of strange emails. Throw in a rough and rowdy kitten to mew in one's face, scratch at one's hands, and covet your omelet, and you have rather a pleasant beginning to a day.
Later there is yardwork to be done. Yardwork done under a sun not too hot, but in air not too cold. A fulfilling and productive task, which produces just the right degree of "good tired." And done with the father figure. Silent bonding.
Trips to stores bustling with Saturday crowds, giggling attempts at feeding wild, skittish ducks with the youngest sister, followed by the warm glow of the tv, intermingle with the rest to create a day rather under any levels of excitement, but not quite boring, and certainly not depressing. Simply a Nice Day. An almost relaxing day.
Upset stomachs, headaches and restless psyches throw the day off from utter content and satisfaction though.
Why is it that some things last so long? Why is it that some things won't go away? Why is it that some things will not be appeased?
It says it isn't there. It masquerades itself as anything else. It hides behind everything else in your mind. But it's always there.
Why can't it be done, so I may enjoy life, and be content in the comfort of the sparse, normal days?
Life is just too overwhelming, intolerable, and sometimes frightening these days. The past, the present, and the future. I have no refuge, aside from disconnection with reality and Life. In intangibles, emotional connotations, and imagery. But even there, Life and its paltry Troubles hound my slipping feet. Go away. Let me be.
I want to lie in the sand and have the sun shine on me. Is that way too much to ask?