tell me what kind of gauge
can quantify elation?
what kind of equation
could i possibly employ?
Ani Difranco
I get in these moods, left over from my angst filled drinking days I suppose- these bouts with an unnameable loneliness, an unpalatable malaise that can barely be assuaged by low hanging E minor chord or a thick bass line. Marinated in a blues yet to be discovered, I wallow in a state of morbid funk that oddly resembles joy. Knowing I am a wilting flower waiting again to bloom. I bow my head and patiently wait.
I burn with the desire to create, but opt out and allow apathy to man the jukebox. Long dirges fill my ears as I ignore the words I could be writing. This garden is sown with boredom and rarely blooms, but it is a field to which I have grown accustomed. I first laid roots at the age of eight and have tended and watered the muddy field ever since. It is home. Comfortable. Familiar.
I am not unhappy here. Not by any means. The sick part is that it is in this very depression that I often find the simplest mirth. I play my sad songs...gone is the wine, the air clear of smoke, a beautiful wife to my side, a growing family upstairs, and me and my state.
Words help. The strum of a guitar. Lost in a book. A few hours of sleep. In the end, I know that this is where I will always return.
can quantify elation?
what kind of equation
could i possibly employ?
Ani Difranco
I get in these moods, left over from my angst filled drinking days I suppose- these bouts with an unnameable loneliness, an unpalatable malaise that can barely be assuaged by low hanging E minor chord or a thick bass line. Marinated in a blues yet to be discovered, I wallow in a state of morbid funk that oddly resembles joy. Knowing I am a wilting flower waiting again to bloom. I bow my head and patiently wait.
I burn with the desire to create, but opt out and allow apathy to man the jukebox. Long dirges fill my ears as I ignore the words I could be writing. This garden is sown with boredom and rarely blooms, but it is a field to which I have grown accustomed. I first laid roots at the age of eight and have tended and watered the muddy field ever since. It is home. Comfortable. Familiar.
I am not unhappy here. Not by any means. The sick part is that it is in this very depression that I often find the simplest mirth. I play my sad songs...gone is the wine, the air clear of smoke, a beautiful wife to my side, a growing family upstairs, and me and my state.
Words help. The strum of a guitar. Lost in a book. A few hours of sleep. In the end, I know that this is where I will always return.
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