Bloglet, the gentleman's mock turtle soup --
Moss made it sweeter than myrrh ash and dhoup

Glory, glory. My blog is now syndicated on Livejournal. _ respond? 03:04:52 AM, Tuesday 18 January 2005

I'm seriously out of whack. I haven't had this much disharmony in my being since... Towson, I think. My life is stable and pleasant, but I'm inert. I fret. I laze about. I lock myself into an empty routine. I use the computer to neutralize the rabbitings of my brain. I feed all my time to it. Look at the things I could be doing: * Walk around the neighborhood * Clean the bathroom * Wrap presents * Talk to or visit friends * Exercise * Write letters or poems or stories or essays * Read poetry or philosophy * Study * Look up things to do in the city * Go to a concert or a play or a movie or a library * Practice trumpet or recorder Instead, I've done the following things in mindless succession, every time I go home, until it's time to go to work: * Bathe * Eat * Sleep * Read novels * Play video games and, overwhelmingly, * Sit at the computer until the hours disappear I go to work and do the last three some more and then start over. The only time it lets up is when I'm with K., but I can barely let myself exult in the ease of her company because I'm too strung out about my own sorry failings. Last weekend was wonderful. She was wonderful. But the whole time I felt like my heart was in shackles. I can't be with her until I fix this. What's wrong with me? I can't look at myself when I live like a vegetable. I'm not progressing toward anything. I shirk the things that could strengthen me and give me purpose. I spend all my energy fighting desperately to keep from doing anything. It's ridiculous. I keep thinking it'll come to a crisis and I'll holler and thrash about and shake it off and go on to be mindful, diligent, creative, productive. But I don't. I follow the same monotonous habits day after day after day after day. My mind withers with my body. I'm locked into myself. It's the pettiest, dullest, most tedious sort of egoism. I'm useless like this. Wasn't self-indulgence supposed to feel good? It doesn't. I'm not like this. I won't be like this. _ respond?