the diary of antoine roquentin

You know you’re in a bad place in life when you find the songs that most resonate with you are from Black Cherry. Especially when “Tiptoe” becomes an impromptu anthem (especially 1:35-ish).

I’ve been feeling uneasy about the declining ability of music to make me feel better during these dark winter months. Today started out well, I trekked up the hill to the post office, then picked up some more Christmas lights at Target before I went home to start work. I wanted to go out today and do something, but I had work to do.

And before I know it it’s dark, and I’m here at 5 a.m.

I wanted this winter to be one of fantastic discoveries, of warm hot chocolates in all-night cafés, of feeling one’s warmth against the cold. However, all I feel is a deep permafrost of loneliness, especially at night. I tried to go to sleep early, at 3:30 a.m.

I existed there, under the covers, as galaxies of those I’d loved floated by in the dark. Despite being ensconced in my bedspread (I wanted to take my old one from Sacramento for sentimental reasons, but didn’t) I bought the exact some one again once I arrived. I hope that possibly I’ll wake mid-dream and for a moment think that I’ll roll over and it’ll be him. Or him. Or anyone, really.

My grandpa died in the house last year in his favorite chair. We joke that “poltergeist papa” is around, and that almost makes the house feel like less of a tomb when I’m the only one awake. I was reading a friend’s blog and couldn’t agree more:

As winter approaches the desire to have a warm body next to you becomes a whole lot stronger. Right now I am not sure if it’s really a lover I am seeking more than just a full sized electric blanket that you can hold and cuddle.

It may snow on Saturday, though, which will make this so much better. I love snow. It’s the solution for everything that’s wrong with the world. What’s the difference between Norway and Uganda? Snow, that’s what. We need to send snow to these impoverished regions so they can go sledding and have fun, instead of shooting each other.

If anything, my insomnia is worse than it’s been in a long time. I used to be able to concentrate really hard and go to sleep if I was tired, but these days I’ll lie there for an hour tired, but still unable to drift off. I’ll think about all my decisions, all the things I have to do, where I’m going in my life, my mistakes in every relationship, dissatisfactions with existence.

I suppose I made a mistake tonight in reading half of this book that Taggart lent me ages ago, The Wasp Factory. I had made up my mind to read it after the semester was over, mainly because I was angry he never finished reading my favorite book at the time, Crash. It’s not really the book itself but having him in the back of my mind for a few hours as I read it that made me miss him intensely, to rack my brain for each detail of every kiss, to try and remember what we would talk about in the back room of the Depot for hours. To try to remember both of our increasingly ridiculous excuses for not being in love with each other simultaneously. Or, if we were, for not being able to understand it or act on it.

I’ve had a difficult time focusing on the positive aspects of existence. Did I mention my mother is dating for the first time in like eight years? She’s latched onto this guy from West Virginia and is floating around the idea of marriage. Which means that the roles have reversed—instead of me going to the city all the time to see who I was dating she’s on the phone with her best friend from high school that lives a few blocks away gossiping up a storm.

She needs to have her own social life, but still, it seems like we never see each other any more. I guess that’s the difference between visiting a place on vacation and actually living here. She and Grandma really loved the lights I put up in the front of the house. I got the timer and programmed it. I’m just having a hard time not thinking about how much I miss Christen and Sam and the whole gang out there.

Was considering taking a trip to Boston to distract myself. I’ve always wanted to go to Boston, since it’s a city with so much history (both real history and Dresden Dolls history), and I like walking around strange cities—capturing the poetry of the streets, the intersection of each angle and corner creating a unique calculus of status and consumer goods. However, the Acela is $99 one-way and the non-bullet train is $60 one-way. I would take the bus, but I hate being crammed into buses, reminds me of all the times I would take Greyhound to see Kelly.

If only my 17-year-old self could see me now. I wonder what I’d think. I don’t really have the money for a mini-vacation. I’m going to Mondo tomorrow if I’m in the mood and I’m going to force myself to get drunk and have a good time. I feel lately as if I’m doling out fun like trying to get a meth addict to eat. I’m at that stage of complete pleasure receptor atrophy that I’ll forget that I have porn on and be distracted reading something on Reddit.

I think it was writing out Christmas cards to everyone that made me realize how lonely I was and how it felt like it would be a million years until I saw any of them again.

I suppose I should abbreviate all this sentimental nonsense and get into some regular nonsense, like the top five albums of 2009! (see post above)

Categories: Ennui