And This Is Fine With Us

Feeling sick today, though strangely so. Not coughing. Not feverish. There is something brewing behind my eyeballs, something in my chest that causes me to move as if in sleep. Ocassionally I allow the future to crush down on me with all the force of a bull elephant charging, lighten up, lighten up. Too much Emily Dickinson in my head this morning, or Kerouac; a bleak world, scant hope. This is all so transitory, the grippingness of my fear is dulled by the knowledge that all things get easier with time. Notes From Underground is the most important book that I have ever read. This is not so tangential, but the bridging of the two directions cheapens the meaning. Sometimes there are no words.