9:28 a.m. - April 28, 2003
Bathsheba asked me to list a few things that I like and I had a difficult time moving beyond the scent of fresh-cut grass and crisp, white cotton sheets. I'd deliberate and then she'd pipe up, What else? and really, I could think of nothing. It's ambivalence, ennui, anomie. I feel like a rusty machine, feel trapped inside a space that's shrinking, jettisoning likes, dislikes, friends, left and right to make more space in a futile gesture. Can you drown by breathing? That's what it's like.
And I sit here whining, complaining, revealing unsavory bits of myself and I wonder if I'm looking for pity - I'm not - an explanation, something. This is my tabula where I can talk to myself because just as I'm closing off from you, I'm closing off from myself. How can that be? But it's true. I'm on auto-pilot, back to working 50+ hours per week, participating when necessary, doing my job well. I am tired of myself.
I tell myself it's worth hanging on, that I'll find something, realize something, reconcile the disparate parts of my life.
I say that the same way I say Good job! and don't mean it at all.