Whenever I’ve left the house today, it starts to rain. I feel like a lizard, tightly coiled, somewhere in the centre of the earth. I don’t know who I’m writing this blog for or why I’m writing blogs, since I haven’t shared this blog with anyone I know. Something about this whole enterprise seems suspicious to me, but I don’t know any better, so I’ll keep doing it. (This will likely be my last blog.)

I guess it’s the rain that chased me out of my burrow. I just checked my horoscope, and it said “The doldrums are over and it’s time to pick up the pace, Taurus. Come out of your house in full regalia today.” Accurate in the sense that yesterday I didn’t leave the house and today I did leave the house. But I feel like I’m still hibernating, somehow.

What I really feel like doing is pulling a blanket over my head and sleeping, or not sleeping and just sitting in the darkness and listening to the rain. A cliché feeling, but that’s what I probably should be doing. But even if I was home, I wouldn’t do that. I’d find some way to use my time in a way that would make the next day feel like it hadn’t happened at all. That’s what I want to do, and what I’m doing. When night comes, it’s a surprise.

Looking back, I can’t remember the day that I lost. It feels like it never happened. I’m not sure why I want to achieve this feeling. I guess it’s better that I don’t use drugs, unlike “Paul” in Tao Lin’s Taipei, who seems to use in order to obtain a similar experience. Although, to be fair, Lydia Davis seems to watch television to achieve the same effect and she doesn’t seem any less depressed as a result. In fact, she might seem more depressed, because with drugs at least you have to integrate yourself into a kind of culture in order to procure them and to make their use meaningful. Although I guess you might come to hate all of those people.

I honestly feel better when I’m writing or reading, especially books that seem to be written by or for depressed people. But right now I don’t want to do either of those things. Oh, I don’t know, maybe I do and I’m just having a kind of tantrum. “I feel unattractive and suspicious of everything I do,” is what I’m telling myself right now. I also feel a very profound sense of oblivion. I know that for some reason I want to maintain this feeling instead of dispelling it, and that’s what I’m doing. Input becomes output. I believe that, although I reserve the right to ignore it at will.

In The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, Toru Okada is instructed to do everything in extremes. “When you’re supposed to go up, find the highest tower and climb to the top. When you’re supposed to go down, find the deepest well and climb to the bottom.” Maybe that’s how I feel—and what I’m not doing. Probably I should get even lower. Instead of climbing out of my hole, I should dig a deeper one.

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