Summer Night Ramble

It's all I seem capable of doing these days -- ramble. I don't write anymore. The few times I've managed to update this blog, or my LJ, I've... rambled. I kind of know why, though I don't understand why. The mere thought of writing fills me with a foreign apprehension; it's as if a daunting task has been put in front of me, and I've forgotten how to tackle it.

I don't know why I feel that way. I don't know how to overcome it. Writing used to be therapeutic; now, it sometimes feels soul-sucking.

Some days, I don't feel like myself. Maybe it's because this summer has been so busy, I've barely had any time to myself, just for me, and it's coming back to kick me in the ass. I guess I need that time more than I realized. I still can't make it for awhile; I'm working, and studying, and have the MCATs coming up, and stuff at home is kind of f***ed up, too.

It's a stronger word than I'd like to use, because it's not meant to sound malicious; I just can't think of another word that stresses the gravity of it. Home isn't pervaded by, you know, spite or malevolence or anything similarly wicked. There's just a lot of depression, confusion, uneasiness, and pent-up anger bred of helplessness, and nothing anyone can really do to fix it. Manage it, maybe? But no, not fix it. It'll pass, or it'll stop hurting; I wonder sometimes which will happen first. I want it to be the former, because the latter could have implications I'd rather not consider.

See? I'm already sick of rambling. Writing. Failing to make sense. Whatever. I don't want to want what I want. Does that make sense?






These guys really made my summer.