The day began with Chopin. I should have known better. Then there were the clouds, and a mild hangover coloring me all moody and maudlin. Alcohol is a depressant, they say. My synapses are tired and fried, ghostly chickens clucking in my mind.
Q tells me not to use writing to dwell; he is an advocate of writing to escape, to distract. I don't disagree with this. After all, it is all anything is - a distraction.
I need to distract my inner Chopin.
A friend, after I had shown him some photographs I'd taken, asked me if I was a lonely person. It is a difficult self-assessment to make, but I think I can admit to it. Who isn't lonely? There is an inherent loneliness in existence, if you are thoughtful - and perhaps even if you are not. Everything we do is designed to assuage this feeling, this ennui, the eventual end to everything and everyone we know and hold dear. Who would argue there isn't a sadness and loneliness about it? But, in the face of all of that, in the face of utter obliteration, extinction, despair, ceasing to be, there is beauty and happiness and acceptance and contentment; that they exist in spite of that looming dark cloud is something special.
I tried an experiment - I just had a drink. It was a 9.5% IPA, perhaps 20oz of effervescent golden goodness, and all of the maudlin, somber, depressing thoughts have been banished from my mind.
Alcohol is a depressant, they say.
God, I can't imagine what I'll feel like tomorrow.
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