Dissatisfaction

[rejectomorph]

Once again, I find myself in one of those moods in which neither reality, nor my re-imagining of reality, is quite good enough. Neither the waning moon bellying out like a sail ahead of the dawn, nor the emerging color of the sky and trees can enliven my senses. All night, busy at one task or another, I felt the absence of wonder. This, I suppose, is all that remains of my capacity for depression. Instead of a stark and oppressive emptiness, merely this dulling of my thoughts, and of my ability to find interest in the commonplace. In short, in place of despair, boredom. A fair exchange, I guess. Still, I hope it passes soon. Boredom leads to restlessness and restlessness to rashness. I don't want to wander into a yard sale and walk out with a box of cassettes. Not again!