Whirl.

[ysobelle]

I am in the strangest mood this minute. I've been sleepy all morning, yet, at the moment, I'm so awake. Perhaps it's the bouquet of roses and lilies on my desk, chanting, "Spring! Spring!" into my subconscious. Maybe it's the infusion of Viginia Woolf drawing my attention to the minutiae of emotions from one minute to the next: I'm fully aware I'll probably be bitchy and sour later this afternoon, then excited again later to go home and watch skating, and maybe make myself that second steak for dinner. Maybe it's this, maybe it's that. Maybe it's my low-ebbed, pseudo-relationship, which makes me alternately happy and sad, but always gives me something to think about. For good or ill. Maybe it's working in a new department with people I enjoy going to lunch with, but being swamped under all the new work. Maybe it's getting back to work creatively, but being swamped there, too. Maybe it's having Buffy on iTunes, but finding all the track names are screwed up.

Maybe it's this, maybe it's that.

But what's the point of living an unexamined life, right? What's the point of being an observer, staring through plate glass at your own daily walk? Even depression is something. The opposite of love isn't hate, it's apathy. I'll admit I need work on the happy, though. I'll just keep thinking of my roses and my lavender and my patchouli.