this place just drains me, I guess.

what else is there to do at 6 AM other than contemplate all the ways in which failure permeates everything, remember very slowly what it feels like to fall in love, or reach for the first time in many months the point at which one has no choice but to give up?

I’m tired, and sick, and with my filter gone I have no urge to throw a disclaimer on that.

no reason to be moody or sick or sad. or awake.
what was it that shakespeare said about sleep?

Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,/The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,/Balm of hurt mind’s, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast —

(Shakespeare, “Macbeth,” lines 34-37)

the hopeful place inside me touts its constant reminders: life is good, I’m extremely lucky, life is meaningful and full of opportunities to improve. I’m happy, I’m happy, and in as many small ways as anyone else I’ve added to the happiness of others, and will continue to do so.

as flat and dull as those thoughts feel, I know they’re full and will seem more robust after some rest. 

in any case, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. And thank you, although I think anyone writing a post such as this knows well enough that they did it only for themselves.