From: Depression
Re: We're sorry, your motivation is not sustainable.
Day two of headache. Begun yesterday, third Wed in sequence on waking. Death-wish replaces standard absence of desire. The difference in degree cannot be overstated: I can't fake life with a headache; the person they meet when I have one is entirely different than the one who has them fooled.
This is the time of year when one reads about it being this time of year again (again).
Again: the death of life; ascendant darkness descending at growing intervals; a cooling atmosphere. They cloud the souls of those apt to read such...lunacy. Others take it in stride, having become accustomed, or being just plain happy... idiots.
Not that it's all gloom: they scribe their attendant reminiscing to "put things in perspective": smells, holidays, family.
Before the interwebs, newspaper columnists dusted off their 4th-rate autumnal poetry every single, godforsaken year. Then came the bloogs. Now there's as much colorful commentary on the changing of the seasonal guard as there is dogshit clumping together the colorful brown leaves on the ground.
I too am guilty of entering such pretentious lamentations into the void of the netroverse (but I don't have a dog).
It doesn't necessarily mean I've been inspired; it does mean that I have, however briefly, borne insufficient ennui to prevent its occurrence.
I harbor no ill-will towards those who get a kick out of living; some of my best friends enjoy life. Or seem to.
I hate it really. It's not just the state of things (politics, culture, etc.). That's just the headache to the depression. Or fuck, shit, maybe I got that backward. Whatever, I just don't get the point.
Yes, there are plenty of pleasant hours, and I am more than grateful for the human connections I have, as well for moments during which I am able to appreciate my surroundings, or some other aspect of "beauty".
And I know my attitude is dishonorable to those who give me their friendship. But I just can't help it.
____________
This is the time of year when one reads about it being this time of year again (again).
Again: the death of life; ascendant darkness descending at growing intervals; a cooling atmosphere. They cloud the souls of those apt to read such...lunacy. Others take it in stride, having become accustomed, or being just plain happy... idiots.
Not that it's all gloom: they scribe their attendant reminiscing to "put things in perspective": smells, holidays, family.
Before the interwebs, newspaper columnists dusted off their 4th-rate autumnal poetry every single, godforsaken year. Then came the bloogs. Now there's as much colorful commentary on the changing of the seasonal guard as there is dogshit clumping together the colorful brown leaves on the ground.
I too am guilty of entering such pretentious lamentations into the void of the netroverse (but I don't have a dog).
It doesn't necessarily mean I've been inspired; it does mean that I have, however briefly, borne insufficient ennui to prevent its occurrence.
I harbor no ill-will towards those who get a kick out of living; some of my best friends enjoy life. Or seem to.
I hate it really. It's not just the state of things (politics, culture, etc.). That's just the headache to the depression. Or fuck, shit, maybe I got that backward. Whatever, I just don't get the point.
Yes, there are plenty of pleasant hours, and I am more than grateful for the human connections I have, as well for moments during which I am able to appreciate my surroundings, or some other aspect of "beauty".
And I know my attitude is dishonorable to those who give me their friendship. But I just can't help it.
