September 28, 2006 2:37 pm
There is no point in pretending. I have found it terribly hard to turn on the computer. I can’t bear to count how many days it is since I wrote my last post and I have read no one’s blog.
Thank you very much for your kind words as comments. I’ll try to put something up so that I can have something to show for the effort of turning on.
In this mind set I find it impossible to connect with the notion that I might ever have written anything worth reading. But I know that depression has descended on me and that my thoughts and feelings are completely different than they used to be.
If only I could write my way out of this hole.
I played golf today. 12 holes, and that might seem to be a sign of health. The trouble was that I took my mood with me and played (sic) as if in a coccoon.
I have resolved to spend as little time as possible alone in the house because here I feel immerced in dreadful emotions. This is frightening and demoralising. At least I have had it before and I have the memory of recovering to help me.
I know things like exercise help improve mood. That’s true as a generalisation but I don’t feel any better for having being out walking for several hours. Maybe if I had played with someone.
There is a black blob of ink on my paper
and no amount of dipping the pen
will tidy the stain.
There was an inkwell sunk into my desk
and I used to gather a load of liquid
to decorate the page.
As the tool for writing became a fountain
and I learned to collect my ammunition
leaks came and pain dribbled out.
This pool is drawning me down into its depth
and I am too heavy to float in filth.
I need a good clean.