Saturday Night Musings

I shouldn't be this tired at quarter to eight on a weekend.  I haven't even been up twelve hours, and I haven't worked in two days.  Honestly, it's all a little ridiculous.  If I thought for a second my tiredness had anything to do with a lack of sleep, I would plan on going to bed in a few hours. 

Too bad I don't think it does.

I've been this kind of tired for a while now, and maybe some of you will recognize it.  It's the kind of tired that leads to a lack of interest in most things that usually hold your attention.  Homework seems to take so much more effort than it usually does.  I can't remember the last time I updated my personal journal, but I know it has been at least two to three weeks.  I've been writing, but I'll write even if I'm on my deathbed–and last weekend I sure felt like it–so I don't count this as a sign of progress.  I've been doing some reading, but that's mostly because I've had time to read for pleasure and not school.  I haven't played either of my instruments for fun until tonight, and I didn't have patience to sit and work out the more troublesome stuff the way I usually do.  Most of my music is boring me–I haven't found anything new to listen to in a while.  

I highly doubt that I'm clinically depressed, but I do know that I'm not happy.  I don't think I have been in a while.  It's hard to remember what that kind of stupid, giddy happiness feels like, the kind that makes you skip down crowded streets and greet strangers with big smiles.  I'm not trying to over-exaggerate and say I haven't had the occasional good day, because that would be lying, but I do know that those good days have been fewer and farther between.  

It's funny; I can't pinpoint when all this melancholia began.  It could've been last spring, or it could've been during the summer, which was in some ways more, and in other ways less than I'd hoped.  It could've been fall semester.  It could've been winter break.  I really don't know.  

Here's what I do know.  I miss having people to talk to.  Lately, I get the impression that even my parents are tired of having me on the phone with them all the time.  I miss the running around doing stupid shit for the hell of it that defined my first two years of college.  I miss having one person I could call up no matter what time of day or night and know that they would always want to talk to me.  I miss walking around downtown and feeling excited about my life and where it was going.  I miss feeling certain that everything was going to work out all right in the end. 

Mostly, I hate that I allowed myself to tie my happiness so completely to one person–one person I don't even have the energy to care much about anymore.  I hate that I'm undoubtedly going to have to go through that kind of misery time and time again before I find someone who can stand my neurosis enough to deal with them forever.  I hate not feeling secure in the knowledge that I'm even going to be able to deal with someone for forever, much less love them, much less know that they're going to love me.  

I guess what it comes down to is that I'm tired of this tiredness.  I'm tired of this lethargy, and I'm tired of sitting around waiting for shit to happen and feeling dissatisfied when it doesn't.  

Sorry for the rant, guys.  If this isn't your cup of tea, feel free to ignore it.            

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