Como luceros fríos

Sobre el olivar hay un cielo hundido y una lluvia oscura de luceros fríos.

24 February, 2008

I used to believe in stuff. A lot of stuff. It was all very important to me. And now I'm half-hearted about everything. Quarter-hearted. No-hearted. Nothing feels good anymore. Nothing is interesting. I have a whole stack of books I wanted to read, ever since December. They'll probably be in the same stack a year from now. Two years from now. I have a lot of time ahead of me and I can't find anything to fill it but work. There are no goals because there is nothing I want to do. There's just no end in sight.

I've kept my apartment pretty clean though, much to my amazement. Since my antihistimines were upped, I can wash dishes and floors and counters and my hands don't break out in hives unless I really, really over-do it. It's something I can do that has a distinct beginning and end and gives immediate visible results. That never soothed me before, but what the hell. It does now. I can't vacuum though, without breaking out in hives. Fucking hell.

All these nights are really long.

He told me that I was worth loving. I wouldn't love me, though. What is so lovable about someone who is sad all the time, hour after hour, day after day? That shit is tedious.

My cats really enjoy it when I change the bedsheets. I leave the blankets off for awhile and they both hop up on the bed and luxuriate. It's bizarre, but I'll do all sorts of crazy shit to make my cats happy.

I don't care about anything election-related. This is no change, however, from previous years. At least something stays the same.

I go to the doctor tomorrow for a physical and to try and deal with these fucking asthma meds. I predict tears.

My therapist is out of her office this week, traveling.


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