“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence--whether much that is glorious--whether all that is profound--does not spring from disease of thought--from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their grey visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil.” (Eleonora, E.A. Poe)
Reading Poe today, feeling exhausted and melancholy. It's one of those February days where everything is off. Nothing tastes good. Nothing appeases me. All things are irritating and sub-par.
I've been making mental lists of things that I dislike, which are really much more like lists of possible things I could find to dislike about the things that I actually like.
It's not a terribly productive use of my time.
February is gay.
And not the fun kind of sexy gay that I am, either.
Just the bleak sort of Heart of Darkness kind of gay.
And there doesn't seem to be any foreseeable end to the suffering.
Uuuuuugghhhhh
Can you hear the whining in my voice? It seems to permeate my being.
I've been avoiding writing here for days now, because it seems all I manage to do is complain. I'm actually not that despondent.
Mostly I'm just restless.
Restless and bored.
Restless and bored, and waiting for the end of February.
Ha!
I miss your face.
That's all I know.
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