Dreams Of Ink

I lay on the couch of an apartment far too big for me, a cup of tea and a newspaper on top of the coffee table. My bleary eyes barely register the rolled up newspaper, before filling with tears. I turn to the other side, facing the couch, and squeeze my eyes shut. But it's too late. The mind is cruel that way, always drifting, always searching, for the one thing you don't want to think of, managing to pinpoint and photograph the one thing you don't want to see. In my case, it was the newspaper article; one in the very corner of the post, so small that it could barely be read beside the huge sports headline about an athlete breaking yet another world record. My mind asks me, over and over again. Is that it? Is that all he's worth? Is that all he left behind? And of course, the answer is no. Because he left me behind too. It was a badly written article, sentences choppy and short, as if the writer was barely managing to huff and puff the words out. ...

(Naming emotions that I don't know what to call is what I consider to be one of my coping mechanisms. It helps, I think, to give labels to emotions that I can't describe. Mini posts like this will be labelled Mood: blank. Sorry it's different from all the other stuff I post here.) Waking up in the morning feeling blergh often means that you will go to bed feeling blergh too. It's slightly worse than numbness, and it isn't indifferent. Feeling blergh means dragging yourself through a day. It feels like trudging through muck, your boots so heavy and thick with dirt that you just want to give up walking. You feel bad, but you don't know what kind of bad. It's not anxiety. It's not sadness. It's just that everything is murky, and every emotion resembles a dull throb. Anxiety is a sharp emotion. It pricks, and it stabs. Sadness is a hot, suffocating emotion. It aches your heart, and feels like drowning. Blergh is not anything. Blergh is a d...