Depression is supposed to be one of the greatest sources of inspiration for writers. I am not a writer by any means but in the past I have found that writing when sad can be cathartic, and can lead to surprising destinations. Hell, most of this blog seems fuelled by that. Lately though, I have been too depressed and lost to even be able to write. I can’t seem to pull together cohesive thoughts, or muster the strength to bang away at the keyboard to keep up with the mayhem in my brain.
No more excuses, though. I am done wallowing in my little pit of despair. I feel like the past couple of months have vaporised. Like I have pushed through a wall of cotton – unsubstantial in smaller quantities but formidable in large ones. It also doesn’t help that the company I interviewed with decide to downsize just at this moment; so no job and no economic freedom for moi. Ergo back to shackles that prevent me from tabling the topic of imminent separation. It’s like the current phase is The Matrix: Reloaded and we are just waiting for The Matrix: Revolutions to land except, y’know, Reloaded was pretty awesome whereas my life is smellier than dog poo right now.
It seems so easy to just live in the moment and put off the big stuff. As long as I keep my mouth shut, I will continue to exist in this manner. We are looking at real estate investments for our savings like there is a big future. Eventually I will have to produce children. I was worried for a long time that my desire to cut and run arose from this eventuality – I do not want children, and perhaps I was manufacturing excuses to get away from that responsibility in this marriage. Now, though, I realise that I am unhappy on a fundamental level, and no fear of procreation could inspire this yawning chasm in my chest. I am tired of second guessing myself, people. I wish I had that Ph.D in me to help out here. (What up blog title reference.)