vague

a vague sense of malaise, a vague depression, a vague sadness. To be leaving NY, as I wander its streets. To be alone, as I sit here, reading a well-written novel by a colleague, evocative but not devastating. Perhaps because of the money woes, the penultimate corner to turn, imminently? Accepting youthful indiscretions both emotional and financial, and taking on the cross-cum-albatross of the latter, at least, monthly payments and all. Scarily, I've probably taken on more emotional responsibility and accountability than financial.

The two nights of YCT not enough to do more than smooth over some rough edges. The rough edges of who I am with EVV1, with friends who are becoming unfriends if I'm not careful, and of not necessarily caring that much if that is indeed the case. I never really thought of myself as ambitious, mostly just arrogant with reasonably good reason, so it was a touch startling to hear a friend ask, "Was winning enough? Or will you get lost in trying for the next victory, the ever diminishing returns on conventional successes?" And I just fucking might. And is this a bad thing? In some ways the dichotomy ties back into what friend and I are silently not discussing but feuding about. God, my deepest darkest character flaw, a largely concealed and rarely indulged taste for musical theatre going back to coping with an ugly childhood, raises its pithy head, "Once I had dreams / now they're obsessions / hopes became needs / lovers possessions." Gag. Excuse me.

OK, me, snap the fuck out of it. Just hung over on a gray day.