Ennui.

"Men, I do not love. Man is for me too imperfect a thing. Love of man would kill me."

And it does, slowly, but unavoidably. There is a grey mist outside that penetrates not just skin and wood and concrete, but soul.. a chill that isn't claimed by the cold Minnesota winds. My chai tea won't warm and there is an unsettledness in my spirit that I can't seem to calm. A symphony of silent cries pierce nothing - accomplish nothing - only echo farther into the land of ghosts to join the multitudes of discontented who never cease to haunt.

If each ghost it not a ghost, but a never-forgotten feeling that could not be erased, how many tendrils of melancholy regret and unchangable despair will curl around you in a single day? Can a feeling be more than an abstract soft science term? Can it be so nigh concrete that it is tangible in air? Maybe only in Harry Potter.

Science says no. Science says that there is simply too much moisture in the air - salt water condensed from the ocean - rising above life on the ground into a shroud of of purple and blue light and dust. A burial shroud slowly binding itself to this earth. This will take careful editing and much more thought but I'm sick of staring into nothingness.

I wonder if a change in location will have an effect on this onslaught of unrest. I can't even keep busy because busy seems impossible on this dragging day. I sound so overdramatic but it truly impacts me like nothing ever has before. It isn't sadness as is painful heartache, where the sole wish is to be dead, instead of stretched from limb to limb.. but sadness as if you are standing at the world's own funeral. Ominous and bleak. Hopeless. As if you know from now on that nothing will ever be the same again, nothing will ever make you completely happy or fulfilled. That is what this mist perpetrates.