Sad
I spent three or four solid hours of yesterday sitting on the couch, feeling sad. And I spent those same three or four solid hours cruising the internet for distraction: blogs; Facebook; Twitter; Instagram. Picking up books, reading a page, and putting them down again. Opening Netflix and scrolling through the options, before deeming them all unsuitable for the task of leeching the sadness away. I am sad. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to say this without really using the words. I am melancholy, for example, or maudlin. I am mainlining Smiths songs and weeping into my hands. The joy of being a writer is that there is always a fancier way of saying things, edging towards the things you’re feeling without saying it outright. Ways of feeling without really feeling, admitting without saying a damn thing out loud. Deploying irony as protective colouration. But the truth is, I am sad. I know this because
