Someone once said that a writer is on a journey, and what he writes is merely a report about what that time and place in his life is like. The highs, the lows, the terribly mundane.
I'm tired of waking up every morning feeling like I'm going to a funeral. I'm tired of waiting on other people all the time. Today I tried to cheer up several friends, and got snapped at for it. It was cold, and very windy. I drove downtown to the library and was blinded by swirling snow as the sun set. It perfectly matched my mood.
I do not like this time or this place in my life. But I do not know how to change it on my own.