Laments

I haven't been able to think of anything to say for a week. Not that I haven't tried--I attempted to write a piece about a documentary I saw on PBS called No Bigger than a Minute, but I couldn't wrap my mind around anything witty and profound to say about dwarfism. Still can't, actually.

The only thing I can wrap my mind around these days is rest. Curled up in bed, with the blankets around me, daydreaming of exactly the kind of like I've always reviled, a warm, clean, cozy house in the suburbs with quilts and potpourri. I can't believe I used to look at that kind of lifestyle as taking the easy way out. My god, the effort required to run such an operation! I can't even get it together to change my cats' litter half the time.

I feel as though I'm ducking my head, that there's some thing at the center of the fog in front of me, but I can't get a good focus on it. It's sobering to realize that as I wrap up my third decade on this planet, I don't think I've ever had an original thought in my life. There's nothing I can think of that hasn't been thought of before. And it's distressing to realize how ignorant I really am, how mentally and emotionally incapable I am of deciding what I want to do and sticking to it. How do people do it? How do they know so much, or appear to know so much? And where, oh where, do they find the energy? Do they all feel like they've been run over by a bus and they've just learned to suck it up and deal?

Someone once told me that realizing how little you actually know is the beginning of wisdom. In fact, I believe Plato came to the same realization himself. Perhaps this should make me feel better, but it doesn't.

What the hell is wrong with me?