Not Entirely Sure What I’m Writing Here

Perhaps just a sad moan at the state of my life. Direction. Things not done. I’ve always tended towards major depression of clinical depression or whatever the manual calls it these days. Months, really. A year or more, I reckon. Time flies, irrespective of whether you’re having fun. On top of which, for the last two months, I’ve been living alone, in self created squalor. And alone breeds alone, breeds an inability to slip out into the world when it is so much easier not to. When my wife gets back, I’ll be something else than before, not quite able to be what I was or what I seemed, because I’ve lost the facility for it and ‘it’ is so much easier to forget than to learn or relearn. And there will be questions of ‘why’ when they there is no ‘why,’ no cause that incident or MRI can explain and instead of a cause there is just an ‘is,’ like an artistotleian unmoved mover. And here I am, in the stairwell, hiding from someone whose self-righteous indignation I simply cannot handle right now, nor work up sufficient lather to face long enough to deliver a response, much less suffer through criticisms that I can’t handle because I am already static and crippled from the barbs of my own self-loathing, thank you very much, so keep your ideas to yourself, thank you very much for riding metrorail.

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