"Disengage the Simulator"
I don't know why I feel the need to update again; I'm not really sure what to do with myself. The bed has begun its siren song, but it's already late afternoon, too late to truly enjoy blissful slumber. Besides, I'd never be able to sleep tonight, and that's what counts most. Imagine if I had to stay awake later, unable to use the computer, and watching inane Monday night television. (Shudder!)
A combination of the gloomy weather, lack of sunshine, and weariness has allowed a strange type of melancholy to infuse my entire body and soul. I feel like an unfocused photograph, blurry around the edges. I can feel that I have fingers, arms, and legs, but they don't feel like my own. I feel disconnected, dissonant, torpid, somnolent. The only feelings I can manage to dredge up from the vacuum are those of melancholy, internal and external detachment, and quiescence. I seem to have no presence whatsoever. I am also, at this moment, afraid to leave the sanctuary of my cocoon that lies within my burrow here in the nowhereness of North Walpole. Most of the time, I am glad that I exist in a place that is unhurried, away from the usual stresses of fetid city life. Sometimes, though, I feel isolated, relegated to pass my lifetime on a distant planet orbiting a black hole. Not that I want to be back in the city; that would kill me. Right now, being on a distant planet is preferrable, even pleasurable. I have no desire at all to mingle with the rest of society, especially one that tends to consider itself 'civilized' when it is anything but. I have been around too many people this past weekend, and I am now paying the price for walking among those who deign to consider themselves 'mankind.'
Even as I scrutinize my own writing, searching for errors, I realize that I haven't been able to fully comprehend my own dubious consciousness, much less describe it aptly to anyone else.
Oh well.
A combination of the gloomy weather, lack of sunshine, and weariness has allowed a strange type of melancholy to infuse my entire body and soul. I feel like an unfocused photograph, blurry around the edges. I can feel that I have fingers, arms, and legs, but they don't feel like my own. I feel disconnected, dissonant, torpid, somnolent. The only feelings I can manage to dredge up from the vacuum are those of melancholy, internal and external detachment, and quiescence. I seem to have no presence whatsoever. I am also, at this moment, afraid to leave the sanctuary of my cocoon that lies within my burrow here in the nowhereness of North Walpole. Most of the time, I am glad that I exist in a place that is unhurried, away from the usual stresses of fetid city life. Sometimes, though, I feel isolated, relegated to pass my lifetime on a distant planet orbiting a black hole. Not that I want to be back in the city; that would kill me. Right now, being on a distant planet is preferrable, even pleasurable. I have no desire at all to mingle with the rest of society, especially one that tends to consider itself 'civilized' when it is anything but. I have been around too many people this past weekend, and I am now paying the price for walking among those who deign to consider themselves 'mankind.'
Even as I scrutinize my own writing, searching for errors, I realize that I haven't been able to fully comprehend my own dubious consciousness, much less describe it aptly to anyone else.
Oh well.