(Goya)
Self-pity is dangerous. It never ends well, never starts very well, either. It always lasts too long. Last night after a lovely sushi dinner with friends I came home and looked around and felt it. I told myself it was just loneliness, but it was too destructive to be only that. I did about as much damage as I could in the short period of time before I fell asleep. I explained to myself how justified I was, though those reasons and that reasoning escape me this morning.
I slept so well, and for so long, that I feel as if I must have taken something. Natural sleep of that kind and length is too much of a rarity for it to have been the cause, though there is no evidence. I feel oddly rested, without any lingering effects. I'll go to the gym and try to sweat out the evil spirits. Intense cardio functions as an effective barometer of self-damage. It's like trying to get the lid back on Pandora's vase.
I had thought that maybe the Christmas tree would cheer me up. A little of the Christmas spirit. Last night I stood in the living room looking at it and it only seemed to magnify the emptiness. The boy is needed to complete the mystery miracle. I hope.
Maybe it's the holidays, or maybe it's only me.
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