My thoughts are coming down in to crush me. It's one of those Sundays. I know why, and it's really the same old thing, but I still can't really quite figure out what that is. I like to call it loneliness, and it might be that. Whatever it is, it makes me notice music a lot more and it tends to make me remember that I really should be writing more of my thoughts down.

I guess the real big obstacle is figuring out if I need to be lonely to be productive in the way I like to be. That would be a romantic artsy sort of notion if it were true Indeed. And it might be true. And I might be romantic.

I do think deciding something like, "I need to be lonely." is really just an attempt to ignore some feelings I have that I don't understand. I want feelings to emanate from a spot in my body so I could just hold my hand there and think about it. They don't though. They just weave through all of my other thoughts. I guess that makes sense somehow. Yep.

So. Lately, I want to suppose that needing to be lonely is hogwash... Just for the sake of arguing. So, now, then. Am I lonely? Maybe. I am missing something. I don't know if a specific person could fix that... Or if a specific type of person could fix that... Or if maybe just a specific kind of interaction could do the trick, for awhile anyway. Maybe all those things. And maybe.

So, what should I do about it? I suppose sitting around talking to my computer screen and my imaginary friends on a Sunday night isn't the most obvious thing to be doing about it, right? I go out. I could go out some more. I have trouble making myself try to meet new people. I don't know why. It just seems fake to me. I want to meet someone just by matter of chance. I want to believe in fate. But what if my fate involves being emotionally unfulfilled? What if? I suppose I could just then try to share my unfulfillment with lots of other people. That's the obvious thing to do.

And tick tock. A poem to close:

rob me of my thoughts,
you overwhelming lusty whore
rob me of my socks,
you dirty low-down diamond
rob me of my pride,
you angel of the night
rob me of my insanity,
you out of control pressure cooker.

Lovely!