Wow, I am in such a bad mood. I am so growly it would be funny, except I can't seem to shake it. It is heavy, and it is all around and in me, through me. I do something, I seem focused, fine, and I keep expecting my mood to lift, to just move on, and I am surprised that it is still there, when I stand up to change activites it moves with me. Maybe if I exercise, or work on my writing in some concrete way, maybe then I will feel right again? I have seen many birds today, and the snow, it meandered, moving so lightly from sky to ground, I thought perhaps it wouldn't ever get there. But still my mood is bad. Only settleing to nothingness when I am not upset. Time moves so quickly for me, and I move so slowly in it. But it is January, and then comes February, they aren't good months, in them I always turn grey, I become like the cold hard ground, nothing inside seems to stir. I worry that I will always be nothing, and worse that I will never try to be anything. Like a dried leaf, just setting in the underbrush, I look up at the sky, I watch the birds, see the trees, I just set here, and crumble in the wind, and wonder what it would be like to be something else. But I don't move, I don't stir, I don't change.

Maybe I should work on the painting instead, it would be so nice to see color, rich saturated color, gliding across a canvas, seeping into it, creating things, blending, adding intensity, showing light. Light isn't hitting anything outside my window, one side illuminated the other dark, showing contrast, and color, and form. No, that is not out there, or in here today. All is dull. Only I don't care to paint, I don't care about the painting, have any ideas for it, I vaguely care that I don't care, but that is all, I wonder if I would change once I started, if the movements would spark something inside, and my eyes would see it, and brush would chase after what they wished to create, or if I would just muddle about making mud from color.

It would be horrible to never try, to go on like this forever. Where has desire gone? Why am I not moved? Why don't I stir? Does nothing rise within me? All is upon the ground. I can not wait till spring, that is too far away, for I do not wish to waste time. I do not know how much of it, will ever be mine, how much I will have to fill, and then not get anymore. What catalyst can I create, to shake that part that rises, once again awake?

I have to work on the writing, I know that is it. The painting does not upset me, whether I do or don't, I know I can, and when I feel it, I know I will. But I am very disappointed about the writing, I have lost my way, I have forgottent the path, and I sit here in the underbrush confused, not even making myself look for it, just sitting being aware that I am not moving, and remembering that I had thought that I was going somewhere. It is just one little story, and I must finish it, or else I will always feel I have failed. One little story.

oh the others are home, dinner must be made