Heavy-lidded apathy rules Saturday. It might not be apathy; I can’t be bothered to analyse myself deeply enough to know for sure. It might not even be Saturday: words are just words, they’re not genuine representations of anything. You know, semiotics, man. Signs and signifiers. You don’t know? Then maybe you never jizzed your brain silly over first year undergraduate English.
I feel estranged from myself in this moment. Not fatally so, not even unpleasantly so, I’m just not quite inhabiting my own mind. Nor anybody else’s, that would be a bit poltergeisty. Or psychopathic. Nothing worse that a psychopathic poltergeist, right?
I could have sworn I just put my favourite pen down on the desk but it’s like it’s completely disappeared.
I think I miss my therapy sessions. I knew they wouldn’t last very long and I am confident that the work we did is something I will continue to try to progress with now that I have grown some new understandings, but I currently miss the act of such genuine divulgence with a relative stranger. I realise I’m extremely lucky in respect of having close friends with whom I can also share the truth of my heart and mind, realise that there are those in life who don’t necessarily have such powerful bonds. But even in the closest of friendships there is the occasional fear that one is being too much of a burden, asking too much emotionally. It may be an unfounded fear; it’s just useful now and then to also have a detached professional to open up to, one to whom you don’t have to fear being a burden as it’s their job to listen to your shit.
Oh well, there’s always blogging. And the friends I know would tell me they don’t consider me a burden.