Not sure what happened, but I don't have much energy to write here any more. Nothing to say and no joy in saying things that don't matter, even to me. It could be because CS has stopped writing. Perhaps waking each day and reading his post and writing my own had created a habit or ritual that now seems cracked, in need or repair or a discarding.
Or, perhaps it was returning to work.
Possibly a touch of recurring anhedonia, the likeliest of causes. I have struggled deriving any pleasure lately, more than a week now. Always dangerous periods to navigate. Out of habit I often blast my senses with treacherous intoxicants, trying to remind myself that I am alive, or to obscure the loss of sensation. To test it, to push it into a familiar corner and then bully it.
Perhaps I need a sabbatical from this now, from trying to organize the world around groups of words. As if.
I spoke yesterday with an old friend, he reminded me that I've been suicidal. What can one say about such things. I'm still here and no longer feel that way, though also know that those feelings are never very far off, never entirely so. Thoughts of my own childhood have been stirring some sadness within me lately. Beauty is loss, youth doubly so.
Mentions invoke and invite the common hex of a sullen mind. Of the curses to endure, a memory of having once been funny strikes at the bittersweet bell the loudest, most boldly. Much of life now leaves only aftertaste. Doubly so.