I think I have too many books.
Remember a few months back when I was wanting to read The Remains of the Day? I had looked through my books, and didn’t see my copy. So I figured it had been left at my parents like a good number of my books have been. Well, I’m cleaning up the back room, dusting my boxes of books (yes, we still don’t have shelves) and lo and behold! There’s my copy of Remains of the Day bought at the University bookstore and read the first time in a moment of melancholy.

Cleaning is cathartic. Straitening. Sorting. Getting rid of the dirt that blows in. Definite, seeable results.

I have a sadness in me. It’s sitting solidly, fist-sized right below my diaphragm. I don’t know where it came from and that makes me even sadder. The last few days I have been near the edge of tears many times. I don’t know why, I don’t know why… Eric makes me upset, but it isn’t him. He’s just being himself and my skin is too thin to take it at this moment. It’s in these times that I know, intellectually, that it’s just chemicals in my brain, out of kilter. But what, what to put it right? Food and sex are obvious short-term answers. But I want it out of me. It’s like a presence. Like that picture of the sleeping woman with the demon on her chest. I want to push it off, out. A high mountain would be nice. Just go up and shout until I’m hoarse, until my throat bleeds. Maybe that would be enough.