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My melancholy has hit a new low. The weather starts to change and my thoughts turn to my bed--how warm it is, how soft, even how warm the light feels radiating from the nightstand. The nightstand itself, so comforting with its two enormous drawers. I begin to feel enormously grateful for the bed, the tall bookcase against the wall that I can reach from bed without even sitting up, the fulsome nightstand and the warm and generously illuminating lamp. With a cup of water on top of the nightstand, I could stay in bed forever. No, really--I would like to stay in bed forever.
Sitting here making myself sad over incredibly pointless, stupid things, such as how none of my cousins ever bothered to get to know me and won't remember me when I'm dead and how nobody has ever signed my guestbook at Ofoto, even though I've been posting pictures there for two years. Bastards.
I always do the wrong things and I get all excited about them and nobody cares. I forget to do other things and everybody notices that. Feel like I can't win, so why bother trying, and I just want to curl up in bed with a book and read myself to sleep. When I am sleeping, forgetting and remembering don't matter. I sleep the sleep of the forgetful and the forgotten.
Then again, earlier today I remembered having the feeling that I had been skipping a difficult class and was bound to fail it, and it was all I could do to convince myself that this had all been part of a dream; possibly a recurring dream and one I'd last had months ago, or even years. I felt certain it had actually happened, and was still happening to me in some disturbing way. I guess in a certain way it IS true, but the anxiety and urgency I felt in the dream and then when I thought about it afterward were, to say the least, unnecessary.