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Sudafed Letter
I don't remember whether I first noticed that I was artistic or that I was nocturnal. I've never been sure whether the two were related, one a natural extension of the other. I do know that I'm more agreeable when I've slept until noon.
It's not that I don't like mornings; I love the ghost light, the whispy blurred dances of birds and cars. I simply like it much better when viewed after a long night carousing with friends, playing the piano and talking too loudly about Becket.
I am finding it very difficult to write this entry, the same reason I haven't written in a week. Or more. . . I don't know. It all fuzzes together. I have been insane many times in my life, most of them depression, but this one is not like any I have experienced before and may for once be founded more on circumstances than biology. In any case, it reaches a point where I cannot connect subject and verb without painstaking concentration - and when paying attention that closely I lose the thought I meant to convey. It's like smoke, which is a cliche, but as I've said I can't write. Ideas but not imagery.
Not really ideas either.
In any case, I'm really fucked up and I'm sorry but I won't be writing here for a bit. Hopefully not too long, which I say more for my sake than yours. I love you all dearly and I promise you that I will be fine.
love,
Romie
It's not that I don't like mornings; I love the ghost light, the whispy blurred dances of birds and cars. I simply like it much better when viewed after a long night carousing with friends, playing the piano and talking too loudly about Becket.
I am finding it very difficult to write this entry, the same reason I haven't written in a week. Or more. . . I don't know. It all fuzzes together. I have been insane many times in my life, most of them depression, but this one is not like any I have experienced before and may for once be founded more on circumstances than biology. In any case, it reaches a point where I cannot connect subject and verb without painstaking concentration - and when paying attention that closely I lose the thought I meant to convey. It's like smoke, which is a cliche, but as I've said I can't write. Ideas but not imagery.
Not really ideas either.
In any case, I'm really fucked up and I'm sorry but I won't be writing here for a bit. Hopefully not too long, which I say more for my sake than yours. I love you all dearly and I promise you that I will be fine.
love,
Romie
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