6/14/2014 in 2014

I have not written in the last few weeks. I have had no thoughts, no ideas, no observations worth recording. The bulk of my effort is dedicated to performing my daily duties, and I find that the addition of prosebox to the list is, for how little it really is, too much. The days go on as they have gone on since I've been back. I now garden periodically for some petty cash. I struggle with the things I have struggled with, every day becoming more frustrated with the world around me and with myself. I am in a dark place, but I find that screaming out accomplishes nothing more than wearing out one's voice. And it robs one of the consolation of dignity. I feel that I cannot write here because, having analyzed things from all possible ways, I have found nothing wrong that merits my response. Logically, my feelings are invalid. I can explain why they are invalid. However, rather than giving me consolation, the invalidity of emotions that I cannot quash deepens them, while I yet know them to be entirely superficial. This contradiction is infuriating. But it is not an anger that inspires action. I don't know what action to take. I realized, recently, that there is nothing that could happen, nothing that could be done that I feel would make any difference. I cannot find the solutions outside. I do not think there are any solutions inside. It makes it more difficult to write when one feels incessantly, and illogically, and one grows to resent oneself for it.