solitary_summer | (no subject) (Reply)

I'm back one day, one, and already I'm beginning to sink back into the swamp of exhaustion and lethargy. Work was okay-ish, tolerable, but I came home tired, fixed something to eat, aimlessly wandered around online, started to watch a movie on dvd but wasn't interested enough, went back online, wandered around some more, found & read a longish, NC-17, but romantic enough to push my emotional buttons, J/D story. And it's almost midnight already, another day gone, wasted. Go me. [inner voice, dripping with sarcasm] During the last week and a half I read Anna Karenina, Der Idiot, Kaminer's Russendisko (which perhaps shouldn't count, since it was two hours reading at best), re-read E. M. Forster's Maurice and was undecided (ca. 50 pages into both) whether I should (re-)read Der Zauberberg or Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse next, when I was packing and driving home.

I felt good, I felt calm and focused, I had five wonderful (exhilarating; happy) days of skiing, decent sleeping patterns for a change, no anxiety/solitude attacks this time, the voices in my head that never ever shut up, endlessly spinning out what-ifs and might-have-beens, all kinds of stories, hypothetical situations, &c., ad nauseam, almost silenced.

Gone, already.

The self-disgust isn't just a pose, but sadly it doesn't change anything either, doesn't push me towards resolutions - it's not really strong enough for that. It merely numbs and paralyses.