This Is Not A
Moan - Down
(Yes, I thought it was quite clever too).
I should have known that this was coming.
Throughout most of last week, I was cruising at altitude; I was outgoing, witty, quite euphoric. "Ah!", I thought, "Perhaps I'm coming through this Depression shit at last!", although I also suspected that the most likely consequence would be one hell of a comedown.
And so it came to pass last night. From around 22:30, I could feel the Black Dog sniffing at my leg again, prior to cocking one and pissing all over me. I went to bed quite early (about 23:30 - early for a Saturday night), but slept poorly and had some rather odd and disturbing dreams. One of them, I'm afraid, even featured Edward Woollard (or, to be punctiliously accurate about it, someone who looked like a photograph of him).
Yes, the 'prisoner complex' has returned with a vengeance, and I am having the same old feelings as drove me to see my doctor nearly two months ago. I also seem once again to be able - completely without trying - to find news stories about people being put in prison when there is no real need for them to be, which depresses me further by the sheer pointlessness of it and also induces something which I've noticed I've been feeling more frequently lately; namely, a feeling of somewhat inchoate and directionless rage at the stupidity with which society operates a lot of the time. Misplaced compassion, perhaps, but better misplaced than none at all.
Having 'slept' in until nearly noon, and despite a brief period of respite having tea at my brother's, I'm sitting here wanting to go to bed (it's 21:25 and it's a bank holiday tomorrow) because I have nothing else I feel any inclination to do, but I know that I won't get to sleep until well beyond midnight - perhaps not even then - and I'm unlikely to feel any better tomorrow.
I don't want to play this game any more.