I'm feeling melancholy today. I did everything I was planning on doing yesterday plus drew a picture and watched some TV, and got a good start on writing thank-you notes this morning. Suddenly, I stopped writing them. I quite simply did not want to anymore. And I have been feeling melancholy ever since. Is it melancholy, or melancholic? I would look it up, normally... I ought to get back to writing thank-you notes. I've read some manga, listened to some music, my mood has not improved. The pit of my stomach is filled with dimness. My eyes are tired from reading. I want to not do anything; I want to do everything. I want to be wrapped in comforting warmth, to have something to hold onto tightly. I want all my dreams to come true. I want other people to see my art, to be moved by it, to read my stories and be impacted, to hear me portray a character and believe that is how that person sounds. I want to be a mother, to raise my kids to be confident and intelligent and street-smart and not afraid of failure. I want to live in a city, where life is moving, swirling, something always happening somewhere. I want to travel, and soak in the marvelous things in the world, to see how other people deal with their lives, to get a glimpse of somewhere...
Am I progressing towards any of my goals? Am I making headway against the raging waters of laziness and angst that keep trying to hold me still? I'm not...doing anything with myself. I get things done, and yet, it doesn't feel like I've accomplished anything important. Daily tasks are trivialized when seen against those looming dreams, and the small steps needed to reach them are buried somewhere inside me. Sometimes I am pleased with myself, with all I've accomplished lately. I wish I could hold that feeling close more often.
I miss Mike when he's gone. He's the only person I see regularly right now. My friends are still my friends, but it feels like I've slipped behind a curtain, a thin film of fabric that is somehow separating me from everyone else, and I don't know how to tear through it. It's non-existant with Mike, and I miss him, and he's gone so much.
Please be patient until I've found my path to walk on. Let me have my moments of melancholy; once they've passed by I am happy again. Teetering. I am not a flat picture. I too have a smile to display, a genuine laugh to be heard, and so there's nothing to pity.
I need to express myself when I feel like this, and I have no wire to sculpt with, and no place suitable for painting, and no markers for drawing the thick black bleeding lines I want, no piano to play on, and my lips have lost the tightness needed for my flute, there's neighbors that I can't bring myself to disturb by shouting or singing, it's too hot to walk anywhere, and I don't have a bike lock for riding. All that's left, really, is writing. I mourn the melancholy as it blows past, knowing the inevitability of its return, yet I will be happy again soon enough.