Solstice

I was writing to a friend last night...

"There’s one thing that everyone seems to forget about the shortest day of the year – it directly precedes the longest night. It is the last nail in the coffin of my dark, lonely, listless winter depression. Each minute is a painstakingly long reminder of the pointlessness and disorganisation of my life. I’d drink it away, but my hands are still shaking from last night’s efforts. I’d smoke cigarettes but they just make me feel sicker – though they do offer a slender solace, reminding you that each sweet stick is bringing the end just that little bit closer.

"It’s wrong to will this away. These have been good days, filled with friends baring broad honest smiles. I should be pleased and proud, but I’ve told the stories of the last six months so many times now they’ve lost all meaning. I’m not sure if what I’m saying is what I actually believe/what actually happened, or if it’s just ‘what I say’ when people ask that kind of question. I’m not a person anymore. I’m just a fleshy container that carries around anecdotes about distant places and far away concepts. I feel hollow and disengaged.

"I’ve figured it out. The key to happiness is your capacity to generate anecdotes. If you don’t have any stories to tell about what you’ve been doing, your life has essentially stopped. The last few weeks have been dead air - a blank slate. A completely fresh life in an all too familiar town. I’ve tricked myself into believing that the city itself created my life’s stories – not true. Melbourne is just a bunch of buildings and roads and thirsty lawns. If I want a story to tell, I’ve gotta go out there and make it myself.

"Let’s let this one be the first. Next week is looking better already"