Where Is the Violin-Playing Goat?
I’ve tried to start this entry several times but I always end up with something so utterly vague. I realized I have a very Shopgirl-NY152 kind of blog (You’ve Got Mail.) Talk about everything, without the personal details. I suppose it whets the appetite of the chance-reader, but really, I suppose there’s a perverse joy in talking about so much without actually revealing anything.
These days, I’ve been crying a lot. I suppose it’s one of those episodes again, creeping back. (Why did I allow her to keep badgering me that way? All it did was to open those stupid can of worms…) Also because July’s half-way done and soon it’ll be August and then the -ber months begin. And then December.
Also because, damnit, I can’t sleep. It’s funny what insomnia does to me. Funny how I used to refuse the night-shift, when in fact, the hours I "keep" nowadays are just that. There comes a point in the night when I stop panicking over the fact that I’m still awake, it’s almost 3 (if you’ve watched that Emily Rose thing…you’ll understand…what with the ghosts in my house and everything…), and I’m actually exhausted from being up and yet not sleepy. There’s that ever-so-fleeting moment of clarity when questions jack-in-the-box into my consciousness. And then like a disgruntled dislocated shoulder, I pop right back into my muddied reality.
Last night the question was, "Am I happy?"
And despite all appearances, I’d have to say no. Great relationships notwithstanding (oh, how I love my Bear) it still boils down to that infernal, missing goat.
