i wonder: is there anything i'm going to miss?

instead of doing anything particularly constructive, i spent most of today writing. it was an interesting exercise in recall, and it's somewhat therapeutic to put your heart through the blender and see what comes out. i relived some very recent moments, thought about them, fictionalized a little, and couched them in very uninspiring analogies. the end was hasty and inconclusive, and the only thing effect it has had is to leave me feeling totally gutted. you know where to read it if you feel the need for bad fiction.

the moon is very bright tonight, and it's doing that thing you see in drawings where it leaves a silvery beam of light fanning out over the surface of the water. it's beautiful, but my inability to feel particularly affected by the sight merely confirms the depths of my depression. nothing is particularly inspiring anymore, and i seem to live only to feed my addiction to anguish. now i understand why people take pills to numb themselves. there's really not that much good to feel, and plenty of bad.

the truth is, nothing seems to be happening on my own terms. more than anything, it's my sheer inability to affect the necessary changes, be it to others or to myself, that might rescue me. i feel selfish for wanting what i want, and i feel horrible for being unable to accept the happiness of others. this misanthropy and self-loathing leaves absolutely nothing left to love, and that is quite an uncomfortable situation. i need affirmation so badly, but it's not going to come.

in a silly way, i seem to think that being exposed to an endless barrage of my neuroses would somehow engender affection. clearly, it only has the effect of increasing aversion. what an unfortunate circumstance when the few i can confide to are also the few i want to impress. after all, who would choose to love a mess?

i wish last night never happened. the temporary happiness merely makes the rest of my life seem even more futile. the weekend is over, and it'll be back to work again tomorrow. i feel dreadful, not because of what i have to do, but what i will have to feel again.