This is a dark period, one of my many moments when sepia turns to burnt umber and all the light dries out of it till what is left is almost black. Even the sensual pleasures become furtive and chore-like. I finish them quickly behind the closed bathroom door. All endorphins fled. There is something amiss in my chemistry. I haven't been writing. My days are a dirge. Nights full of screams and I wake exhausted. I am eating myself with this wasting disease of sadness. I am struggling on without my support team. I have scared my support team. I have raged and plundered and pummelled tears from their eyes. They give me a wary berth. My arms ache for a hug that will no longer be forthcoming. I have spoiled the one good thing I was clinging on to and now I must drift alone.
I am sick of the sadness. Sad sick. A sea of it. I force myself to grin. I listen to the happy music but it only irritates. All I can bare is The Pixies, Syd Barrett, The Breeders, songs that rage or limp along in their confusion. I grow sick of it. I want the turn around now. I want the joy and the running and laughing. I want my friend back. I want our joking back. I want the easiness. I want it back now.