Well, the dosage is going up again.
I'm not sure how this is going to interact with the next few weeks. This next weekend, we're going to the Northwestern tournament, which is one of the bigger ones in the nation. The weekend immediately following that, it turns out that we're going to the Heart tournament in Kansas. Then two weeks later we have our district tournament.
That travel schedule, along with hundreds of pages of (difficult) weekly class reading and the strangely powerful sedative effect of the Remeron will probably be a disaster. And I can't go off this shit because whenever I do I go into withdrawal and turn into a freak that gets angry at everything and can't think straight (not so good when you're trying to write out answers to a critical theory position that's being read at eight words a second).
In the mean time, I have to write a new aff, clean out my room, organize my files, catch up on class reading, and somehow find time to enjoy myself.
I realize that all of this is kind of petty in the scheme of things and that I don't really have any real problems in my life compared to most of the world, but it feels good to write this stuff and complain in a no-risk space.
But that's what makes all of this shit so frustrating. In an absolute sense, I have nothing to be unhappy about. I have so many resources, opportunities, friends, and potential. Nothing really horrible is going to happen. I'm going to go to those tournaments and write my papers, learning a lot in the process. I'll come out all the better, just like I have every difficult semester of my life. But I still can't get this weird shadow of pointlessness and dread to go away and I don't fucking no why.
Jesus Christ, how'd I turn into a whiney fuck head again? Someone should slap me.
Anyway, to make this less boring, I'm going to post something interesting that someone else wrote. It's in a book of mine and, for some reason, I've circled the whole page eight goddamn times and have written the word "yes" in the margin. It's good, though.
SO MANY CONSTELLATIONS that
are held out to us. I was,
when I looked at you - when? -
the other worlds.
O these ways, galactic,
O this hour, that weighed
nights over for us into
the burden of our names. It is,
I know, not true
that we lived, there moved,
blindly, no more than a breath between
there and not-there, and at times
our eyes whirred comet-like
toward things extinguished, in chasms,
and where they had burnt out,
splendid with teats, stood time
on which already grew up
and down and away all that
is or was or will be -,
I know and you know, we knew,
we did not know, we
were there, after all, and not there
and at times when
only the void stood between us we got
all the way to each other.