Personal limbo

This weekend has been endlessly useless in terms of my academics, having done little more than reading and taking a few paltry notes. I still have three to four pages to write before I sleep tonight. No problem, I think, its only seven.

Amazing how personal growth can sneak up on you, with a squeaky snnneeeeak it pulls up and taps you on the shoulder, you turn to find empty space, turn your head the other way to see it grinning mischievously, its eyes glinting with knowledge before disappearing. I never quite caught it to ask what it knew, but somehow I've been left with a strange sense of almost-peace. My mood is not changed much from last week, but somehow improved. As if I've been separated from that reality by a pane of translucent glass. This makes little sense to me, and if I cannot articulate it well enough for self-reflection, I cannot hope that you will understand. Take it at this: I don't feel better, but I no longer feel bad.

I booked train tickets today, perhaps contributing to a sense of accomplishment I have no right to feel. It took more than I expected to make the final decision, as sure as I have been for weeks that I wanted to go. So sure that I acted as if it were done. Perhaps the events of the weekend brought me to it, for some reason I feel nervous and peaceful at the same time. Perhaps that is not strange or unusual at all.

I found The Dead Letter Office on metafilter today. It is interesting and eerie and compelling. Take a wander through the halls. I wonder how many dead letters one can write, how many times one can expel truth and wisdom before running dry. I contemplate writing my own dead letter but cannot even think of where to begin. This is maybe why I am not dead.