(no subject)
By the fact that I'm writing right now, at this moment, speaks to the folly of even attempting to claim, "I've nothing to write."
Yet. What is there to say? I ache, I long, I know not the reason why. Perhaps 'tis nought but the Lady Earth's slow tilted rebuff, turning her cold cheek away from the Sun; but ah, perhaps the universe could explain my pains elsewise.
For mundanities:
I have been reading Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale. For whatever reason, I felt myself compelled to read Shakespeare of my own volition, a desire that'd never before struck me, but perhaps it was my soul's hunger that drove me to it. Thus far, I've been appreciating most my ability to comprehend the plot, and the elegance of the language, which I've been hesitant to taste, but perhaps tonight, alone in my room, I'll read aloud to spirits of the night. The other night, I needed the writing of Neil Gaiman - my soul hurt so badly, and I felt so hollow, and I knew that the exact remedy would have been his short stories. I needed him, and had nothing. And my evening wafted melancholy for it.
More mundanities? Well, there was yesterday's "stuff-your-face, Americans!" holiday... But I am thankful most days, and yesterday's reminder felt most disingenuous to me. Alas.... As well, I've yet to conclude my semester, though need not drive to Chester until January (how I welcome this respite!). Of course, I've papers and homework galore. And not a whit of motivation to begin or continue.
I think I may be slightly depressed (or as Coleridge would've put it, dejected). My heart hurts, and I feel so far away from everything and everyone that I can neither call out nor even whisper to those who might respond with kindness. Further, what reason have I to feel this way? None, none. It just waxes and wanes. I am but a silly whiny girl with a good life, and I am apparently too blind or preoccupied to appreciate, let alone enjoy.
Tomorrow evening, my love and I will be trekking, separately, to rendezvous at Grand Central, so that we can meet up with a friend of his. Right now, I am most looking forward to the train ride home, sitting next to my love and leaning my head on his shoulder. I am excited, of course, to meet and converse with his friend, but also a bit nervous to meet her (they once had a relationship of sorts). It will doubtless be a good time, however, and I'm certain many laughs will be had by all.
I am stuck in headspace and hermiticism, pushing much of the world away while wishing it were near (I sometimes feel all these issues would be resolved if I could just have face-time right now, with everyone I care about and never see). I'm sorry.
I think I've nothing further to write for now, but thank you for ... for reading? No. There is More. Thank you for being you, whoever you are. You are a beautiful being, and I love you.
Yet. What is there to say? I ache, I long, I know not the reason why. Perhaps 'tis nought but the Lady Earth's slow tilted rebuff, turning her cold cheek away from the Sun; but ah, perhaps the universe could explain my pains elsewise.
For mundanities:
I have been reading Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale. For whatever reason, I felt myself compelled to read Shakespeare of my own volition, a desire that'd never before struck me, but perhaps it was my soul's hunger that drove me to it. Thus far, I've been appreciating most my ability to comprehend the plot, and the elegance of the language, which I've been hesitant to taste, but perhaps tonight, alone in my room, I'll read aloud to spirits of the night. The other night, I needed the writing of Neil Gaiman - my soul hurt so badly, and I felt so hollow, and I knew that the exact remedy would have been his short stories. I needed him, and had nothing. And my evening wafted melancholy for it.
More mundanities? Well, there was yesterday's "stuff-your-face, Americans!" holiday... But I am thankful most days, and yesterday's reminder felt most disingenuous to me. Alas.... As well, I've yet to conclude my semester, though need not drive to Chester until January (how I welcome this respite!). Of course, I've papers and homework galore. And not a whit of motivation to begin or continue.
I think I may be slightly depressed (or as Coleridge would've put it, dejected). My heart hurts, and I feel so far away from everything and everyone that I can neither call out nor even whisper to those who might respond with kindness. Further, what reason have I to feel this way? None, none. It just waxes and wanes. I am but a silly whiny girl with a good life, and I am apparently too blind or preoccupied to appreciate, let alone enjoy.
Tomorrow evening, my love and I will be trekking, separately, to rendezvous at Grand Central, so that we can meet up with a friend of his. Right now, I am most looking forward to the train ride home, sitting next to my love and leaning my head on his shoulder. I am excited, of course, to meet and converse with his friend, but also a bit nervous to meet her (they once had a relationship of sorts). It will doubtless be a good time, however, and I'm certain many laughs will be had by all.
I am stuck in headspace and hermiticism, pushing much of the world away while wishing it were near (I sometimes feel all these issues would be resolved if I could just have face-time right now, with everyone I care about and never see). I'm sorry.
I think I've nothing further to write for now, but thank you for ... for reading? No. There is More. Thank you for being you, whoever you are. You are a beautiful being, and I love you.