(no subject)
Why of all things did I decide to read "The Catcher in the Rye" over break? Great. Now, usher in depression.
In other news: if I don't kill myself (which won't happen, breathe out), something else might. I think I have an outbreak of shingles (brought on by these untenable doses of stress while at home), which is proving to make my life even more pain-free. Cheers to good health and happy novels.
Did I mention that I have a fucking piece for orchestra to finish in about ten days? Oops.
(We had at least two inches of snow in Bellevue. It took at least two hours to get back from Seattle. Also, look up the pictures of stalled/parked cars from tonight. Very confusing. But the snow is beautiful. I wanted to stay outside forever.)
The sleep patterns aren't getting any better. I'm still wide awake and I have absolutely no energy to speak of until around 2:30. This is a fairly consistent schedule.
I'm seeing my old composition teacher tomorrow morning. I don't want to drive on icy roads. I don't want to smile. I don't want to pretend that everything's great and I'm having a wonderful time composing and living in New York.
I had lunch today with some old friends. There is a point when a wall goes up, over which the terror of being shot down and scrutinized for what you've become is too unbearable. I felt so fake, saying the things I said. (Does anyone else feel this way: that in the most painful situations, you are able to function the best? The best work is done? Or, at least, that you're the most aware of yourself? I think dukkha-dukkha is the Buddhist term for it, but I'm not entirely sure. Oh, Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dukkha, perhaps.)
Enough.
In other news: if I don't kill myself (which won't happen, breathe out), something else might. I think I have an outbreak of shingles (brought on by these untenable doses of stress while at home), which is proving to make my life even more pain-free. Cheers to good health and happy novels.
Did I mention that I have a fucking piece for orchestra to finish in about ten days? Oops.
(We had at least two inches of snow in Bellevue. It took at least two hours to get back from Seattle. Also, look up the pictures of stalled/parked cars from tonight. Very confusing. But the snow is beautiful. I wanted to stay outside forever.)
The sleep patterns aren't getting any better. I'm still wide awake and I have absolutely no energy to speak of until around 2:30. This is a fairly consistent schedule.
I'm seeing my old composition teacher tomorrow morning. I don't want to drive on icy roads. I don't want to smile. I don't want to pretend that everything's great and I'm having a wonderful time composing and living in New York.
I had lunch today with some old friends. There is a point when a wall goes up, over which the terror of being shot down and scrutinized for what you've become is too unbearable. I felt so fake, saying the things I said. (Does anyone else feel this way: that in the most painful situations, you are able to function the best? The best work is done? Or, at least, that you're the most aware of yourself? I think dukkha-dukkha is the Buddhist term for it, but I'm not entirely sure. Oh, Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dukkha, perhaps.)
Enough.