I’m just too depressed to write anything other than depressing thoughts this morning. I don’t know the source of this bleakness, but I know writing will only make it worse. Writing tends to draw darkness out of me, though that outward flow doesn’t get filled with light; an endless flood of darkness creeps in to fill the void. I’ll stop writing and, in a couple of hours, will put on my happy face and go to church. There, I’ll pretend to enjoy the company of people who probably have done the same thing; they’ve put on a happy face in preparation for pretending to enjoy the company of people doing the same thing.
The sun is bright this morning, but the light looks muted. I hear birds singing, but they ar not in full throat. Even the leaves on the trees look sad and lonely, as if they are being ignored by all the other leaves around them. Hordes of depressed leaves and lonesome trees and light in the sky looking for a bright reflection but seeing only darkness drinking in the light.