I woke with the darkness curling around my gut - a hunger for something other than food, other than anything identifiable.
The bitter comfort of shapeless despair wraps me in the plush folds of smothering regret like an old friend.
This I know.
The old familiar sting, as the poet once sang.
There is a certain peace in returning to misery - feeling the familiar shape of self-loathing like an old skin I once wore and somewhere discarded, finding me as I am now and shaving the rough new edges back into the older patterns.
Positive habits, formed with desperate, crawling clutches for "happiness", are discarded with the cynical surety of resignation. What do these matter, when they are voluntary fictions?
There are more things to regret in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in philosophy, in neuroscience, in psychology and sociology - all our feeble attempts to understand the ultimate mysteries of our selves.
Today I choose to glory in my old shapes of loneliness, to wallow in the empty fields of my own mind - perhaps to reacquaint myself with myself.