I am situationally sad. Because it’s been a different week. Because New York feels like a ghost town. Because there is no one distracting me. The holiday commercials have started. I have taken my gloves out. I have worn my boots through the hardened over grass in the park.
I am going back tonight to watch Synecdoche, New York again.
I was advised to refrain from sending personal emails today. It was suggested that writing emails, or poetry, or long-winded essays on situational sadness, would only hurt myself. So I read old emails, old poetry, old clumps of words meant to trigger some sort of emotional gag reflex.
It’s true, now, I am a different person. I no longer have the energy to stick my fingers in anyone’s mouth, to scratch the throat, to reach down and rub my nails against a pulsing heart. I wouldn’t do that again. I have my own organs to look after, my own inner monologue to rewrite.