This is depressing. This is really depressing.

Here I am, starting to write yet another blog entry about how sorry for myself I feel and how inadequate I am and how I feel about feeling sorry for myself and how I am justified in feeling inadequate. Why? Because it would make me feel better to write it down and send it out and have people I don’t know, fellow writers who have maybe been in the same boat, or who ‘like’ my posts so I will look at theirs in return, validate why it is that I write and “publish” stuff like this on a semi-daily basis. What’s the point?

It’s the end of the work day, the end of the work week, I’m waiting for my third cup of coffee of the day to cool down so I can drink it and feel more alive and awake and alert so I have the energy to do so much as stand up tonight let alone any or all of the other things I plan to do. And here I am, being ponderous about why and how I feel sorry for myself. And that’s what this day has come to. That’s what this year, thus far, has come to. And there’s really not much I can do about that even though everyone else tells me there is – I can in a worst case scenario, seek “help” – what kind of help? Who from? How, at such short notice and without a referral or maybe from a 1-800 number where some volunteer will try to intervene on some crisis they seem to think I have when the fact is, there’s no crisis to be intervened upon, unless my life, as it is, was, and will continue to be, is a crisis. I can, in the best case scenario, “focus on other things”. Well, how do you do a damn thing like that? Because the fact remains, focusing never makes something go away. It will always come back, eventually. Until it comes back in such a minimal capacity, you can’t feel anything anymore. But… it’s still there. In a scenario where I can’t focus on other things but I don’t need help, one person might suggest to me that I “do other things to make myself happy and figure out what that is.” Well, that’s what the mice thought when they came up with the solution to simply put a bell on the cat, wasn’t it? And look what happened there? (Spoiler: The mouse got eaten).

So here I am, feeling depressed, tired, burnt out, sorry for myself, and at a loss of what else I can do. So I’ll do what I always do. Divert attention away. Go for drinks. Enjoy the fact that the sun is out right now and it’s unseasonably warm, and that I can be outside in boots that aren’t lined with shearling cotton and feel freedom in that. That’s all I can do. That, and wait. Wait for what? Who knows. Nothing. Everything. Something. Anything. That’s really all there is to do.


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