Locked up in my room, suffering from insomnia, and unwilling to see any bright side, I don't sleep like any normal person. This always happens when I am unemployed. It's a curse. It's not a good thing to have too much time to think about all of the things you are not, and that's all I do.
I stayed up organizing my books. Touching them, flipping through them, and resurrecting them gives me a small measure of comfort. Though I have moved (there was Mexico, and of course, California), my books are constant companions I can't convince myself to abandon. I've disposed of belongings and lost what I believed were indispensable material products (my iPod being the most recent thing), but I must have my books. Even though I frequent the library, my personal library is the only thing I own. I hide behind my voracious reading habits. I am intelligent, but not very smart. I am intelligent, but not a success. I am intelligent, but not worth employing in even the most menial of capacities. I have sent applications for dishwashiing positions, housekeeping, and for busing tables. Austin, Texas is a joke and I am sick of pretending to laugh.
I also found seven of my old journals. Moleskins. I have lost my heart for journaling. Blogs haven't taken the place of my journals, I just realized that far too much of what I wrote in my journals was repetitive and pointless. I used to say that I wanted to leave a legacy for people to read about me after I'm gone, but I've concluded that the world has better things about which to be curious.
I'll cut this short for fear of diving into my usual negative depths. These types of things don't go away. How could they? I have to live with who I am, and that's not much.