Well, it’s Monday again. Welcome to another Monday.
I walked to the train again this morning, as I did on Friday, and since I chose to get up and go a bit earlier today, I’m actually now on a train that will arrive at my destination earlier than would have the one I would have boarded had I taken the bus to the train.
Wow, that was a long and convoluted sentence, wasn’t it? Sorry.
I think on Friday, after my first morning walk to the train, I started the day off a bit giddy, and I think that affected the quality of my blog post that day, so my apologies for that. I think I was experiencing my first real endorphin rush from endurance exercise in many years, and it got me rather wired and a bit garrulous and—for me—outgoing for the very early part of the day.
That didn’t last, of course. By early afternoon my general outlook was diminishing and deteriorating and various other verbs starting with “d” and ending in “ing”. I don’t know how well that fact came across to others in the office, though. I seemed to make people laugh a bit more than usual in the morning, and I certainly felt less tense than I usually did, but I can’t tell at all if my personality from their point of view was any different than usual. Even when I’m profoundly depressed—in my immediate mood in addition to my general state of neuro-psychology—I tend to say sardonic things that people find funny a lot of the time.
I think this actually impairs my ability to convey the fact that I really feel deeply horrible. People seem to assume that if you’re making jokes and are funny, you must be doing okay. I can tell you from personal experience, this is not necessarily the case. Sometimes jokes are expressions of desperation. Just look at poor Robin Williams, if you don’t believe me.
But by the end of the day I felt tired and frustrated and grumpy and gloomy. That was me on Friday afternoon, which makes me rather different—according to popular understanding, anyway—from most people. Friday afternoon leading into a weekend in which I don’t work is not a prospect that meant much good for me. I just sat around in my room at the house, alone—after walking home from the train, which at least caused another, if less notable, bump up in my mood.
I walked to local convenience stores a couple of times over the weekend, and I walked to Burger King on Sunday, and of course I did my laundry, but that was it. I didn’t really do anything enjoyable. I certainly didn’t spend time with friends, since I don’t really have any—though I did speak with my sister on the phone on Sunday evening, and that was very nice.
But really, I have a hard time being at all interested in anything much. The YouTube algorithm is beginning to fail me with respect to offering me things I’m interested in viewing; but perhaps it’s me failing at the algorithm, in that I simply don’t have anything that interests me, and so YouTube can’t offer me much in the way of stuff I’d like to see. It does occasionally offer me the little option box of being shown an assortment of things that I’ve never seen so far. I’ve used that box once or twice in the past, but I don’t remember it being particularly beneficial. I didn’t use it this weekend.
I wish I could find some longish-form fiction that I could enjoy again, like I used to. Back when I was reading The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever and The Belgariad, and later the Harry Potter books, and even things like The Sword of Shannara, and then The Elfstones of Shannara, or various Stephen King and related books, the books gripped my attention and could keep me occupied for quite a long stretch each. Also, of course, in between reading books, I actually had a group of friends with whom I did things that we enjoyed.
Not so, now. Now the only fiction that I’ve been able to stick with has been a few select Japanese light novels, most of them centered around high school kids, most of those being loners of some sort or another. But these books, though I can stick with them, seem just to make me feel a bit more depressed when I’m done, as if they are surrogate friends or surrogate lives, and once they’re done, I’m even more alone than I was before. And they are all ridiculously short, being light novels.
I have noticed a peculiar and rather amusing effect of reading some of these stories: When they are written in first person, which is common, I often tend to think to myself in the fashion of the character for about twenty minutes or so after a bout of reading them, almost narrating my actions as if I were writing a first person story. This goes away rather quickly, but it’s a bit unsettling. It’s as though my sense of personal identity is so effaced that I just start mirroring the only identities from which I can get any inside view, which are those of first person narratives.
Oh, well, I think we’ve established already that I’m a weird person, so I don’t know why even I am surprised when I find new weird things about myself. Maybe I’m just irredeemable—you certainly cannot save me up and exchange me for valuable prizes or anything of the sort. If you save me up, so to speak, I just become wearisome. Everyone who has ever spent a long time with me on a regular basis has ultimately found me not worth enduring.
I am one of those people.
I guess I don’t have an endorphin rush today. I hope you have one, if you can. They’re nice.
In my world, weird is wonderful and no one needs to be redeemed from anything. HTH!