Melancholy

I loved the book. I loved it. It was something I could've written. That's probably why I loved it; we can only ever love what we understand. People keep asking me how my day's been. I don't get it. Ever. How can a day be singularly 'good' or 'bad'? I've never had a day like that in years. Maybe I've never had one. I don't remember. It doesn't matter, either way. I sleep a lot these days. I'm sleepy all the time. It's a nuisance. I could go to sleep right now, and it's noon. I feel so utterly useless. I wish the inertia would go away. I saw a cat lying on the grass yesterday, while going to class. He was rolling about in the sun. I scratched his belly. And then he went away. I had a thought lying in bed last night. It was a terribly important thought, and it cheered me up immensely, having thought a thought like that. But when I woke up in the morning today, I couldn't for the life of me remember what it was. I wonder whether it'll come back to me, and whether I'll know when it has. I wish it hadn't gone away. I had a dream last night. In the dream, I was a caterpillar and you were a butterfly. And you were beautiful. I remember the glassy patterns on your wings, as you unfurled them in a burst of free motion.

You flew away.

I had breakfast today. Toast, egg, milk, cereal. I have this every day. Every morning. My breakfast and I are comfortable together. I didn't feel like getting up from the breakfast table.
So I missed the bus. It honked for a while, and then it drove away. I went and saw my mother in the kitchen today. She was cooking lunch for me. Some vegetables, a pot of meat, and soup. And I went and stood beside her, while she cooked. The hurr of the spinning exhaust, and the smoldering stuffiness of cooking plants overcrowded my mind. And she wiped sweat from her brow, and smiled at me. The yellowness was too much for me. I went away.