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.
