Something I wrote a few days ago on a rainy afternoon.
Apology to Paul Simon: Strange and Mournful Day Little Darling of Mine.
It was a rainy day and she felt all alone.
She laid in the middle of the floor while listening to her favorite rainy day man stream from the speakers of her computer which she imagined was an old radio and that instead of a high rise on a rainy day she was somewhere green and nostalgic.
Some days she felt as if she knew no one and nobody knew her.
Still girl tomorrow's another day.
Earlier today I sat in a cafe sipping tea and reading the most depressing book I've ever read in my entire life (Messiah, Gore Vidal), and on the radio played a trio of strings that plucked the melancholy right out of my stomach and plopped it on the table for me to stare at. What gives?
I feel like the most unremarkable creature that ever lived. The only place I've felt really good at lately is my ceramics class! Why the heck am I so off? Is this the last croaks of winter getting their miserable kicks on me before sweet spring sets in? Is this funk lingering from troubles past or coming from projected future troubles?
I think I've just been watching too much television. I'm such a rat in the winter. Instead of avoiding people the whole season I should just completely avoid books and television; I'm too impressionable and easily bored, respectively. These are the times I wish I still played soccer!
321 Funk Be GONE! (Ireallyneedtogetoutmoredomoresmilemorehangoutmore).