The reality is that I spend many hours of my life alone and viciously unhappy, in a mood state I find it hard to describe without making myself sound absolutely deranged. It features elements of sincere melancholy, malevolent rage, and my mind gets impressionistic: I associate sensory perceptions in a manner I consider to be insane: I see things like embryos in clouds, or hear a song played on a radio and think it’s children crying. I make a lot of faces, and my body moves in physical response to the tirades and invective which constitute my internal monologue.
Tonight, in order to get the pills I need to sleep, I had to go to the pharmacy at midnight; because of an unfortunate crush of customers, the only pharmacist on duty needed more than an hour to fill mine, so I didn’t get home until 1:15 AM. I spent a lot of quality time with the products of our era: I was particularly lost in the bottled water area. I spent too long peering into the jungle canopy depicted on the Fiji Water bottle.
I catch myself getting stranger. It doesn’t matter. I get stranger anyway.
