Because writing something and hitting "publish" might make me feel halfway human again. Or, ok, at least human enough to remember that earphones work much better to play music when there's music for them to play.
Perhaps it's just the end of winter. The drift out the window behind the house is still waist deep, or so I'm guessing. I have no desire to empirically verify. The feeling I had earlier this month, that things were moving underground, feels like too much work to maintain now.
Bleak. The sky is deep blue behind the bare branches, the maple buds are starting to turn red, but I don't really care. There's crap on the floor (metaphorical, not literal, relax. Wait, unless you count guinea pig crap, which I found in my rubber boots earlier). I spent a certain amount of time picking it up, getting angrier and angrier, not at the people who left it there, necessarily, but that the crap exists in the first place. Things need to be picked up. I hate that.
I thought about depression, earlier. I wore my rubber boots because I knew outside would be better, but tying my sneakers was too much effort. Maybe not, though. Maybe repression. Or burnout. Or the low after a crisis. I've been fighting to find the words for weeks now, showing up on my therapist's couch (actually, she has these kickass purple leather chairs) to say where's the fun? Where's the harvest? Why does life never let up? Where's my vacation, dammit? I feel like there's no give and take here, no rhythm, just life sucking everything I've got. Loneliness, and the demand that I show up with all the right answers, and a shiny face.
Maybe I'm being too dramatic. I'm going to go sit on the steps and catch the last rays of the sun. Maybe that's all I need.