It's been six months since I left the States to come up to Newfoundland and pursue a Master's degree in Folklore. Which I guess was my modern-day equivalent of running away to join the circus.
I basically felt like if I stayed my life would stall out. I'd be doing the exact same thing in the exact same place over and over again for the rest of my days.
I don't know.
But being here doesn't feel right either. This degree is nothing like what I thought it would be. I don't want to give up like I gave up before with the library degree. (I totally should have stuck that one out. Realize that now.) But at the same time it feels like I'm wasting my time.
Late at night, or after reading or watching a really good story, I realize, "Hey. I should be writing stories. That's the only thing that's ever made any sense."
But I don't, or maybe I can't, or maybe I won't. Again, I don't know. I haven't written anything since I've gotten here. Which is part of why I feel like I'm dying inside.
Ugh. I know. Histrionics. But whatevs. I'm an artist, or was once. That's part of the deal. I used to write all the time. I used to live and breath stories. Now I wake up, and I'm so depressed that I've woken up that I roll over and just try to go to sleep again. Now I'm both lonely and longing to be left alone at the same exact time.
I wonder if I'm about to get my period. I wonder if it's lack of sunlight, vitamin D, whatever. Seasonal Affective Disorder or something. Like maybe the clouds will part and I'll find myself able to breathe again.
But right now I just don't even really want to bother waking up tomorrow.
Right now I just don't know.