I have come to questioning that which I see, which I hear, and my own motivations behind my actions (not always, mind - perhaps not even 'most' of the time, but sometimes), quite more than is healthy. And when I do, the holes in my notorious memory become more and more distressing, I begin to worry over things that are most likely too trivial for such intense ridicule. I will not elaborate, as for now I do not believe focusing on such things would help.
Back to the gist of the topic, I know that people's body language is a powerful tool, and I know that most of the time I maintain a disposition which most people would call "depressed" or "drained", and for me it's a fairly steady state. Putting it in analogous terms, it is the rock earth beneath me, and though you can climb onto a table, or scale a ziggurat, or dive out of a plane at 30,000 feet, eventually you have to come back down and stand on that same cool, smooth, dark ground.
And this constancy of 'downed' state seems to be (at least mildly) offputting to others.
But then sometimes I feel that that is not me, that like every other person on this earth I want to go out and see the world and bask in sunlight, frolick in the ocean, wonder at nature in all her beauteous glory. And it is wonderful, and afterwards I come home contented. And soon enough I have forgotten the desire to live again. And I'm just going through the motions.
But I'm slipping, and forgetting what the motions are. And even posting here I'm likely concerning some poor devil.
Though perhaps I feel a little justified to it, this venting of some of my demons. I tagged it, and this is the place for bitching.
In any case, do not be worried. I'm simply trying to articulate a curious malady of the soul at an early hour of the morning. And I feel perhaps over the course of this letter that I have become rather overly attached to the the flamboyant fluidity allowed by the written word.