2001-07-03 - 12:51 a.m.
I hate it how winter always deceives me. It seemed a nice day when I got up this morning, the sun was out, and my spirits were as high as they could get in the blasted cold. I actually felt happy.
These days, I don't even try to recall if I was happy the day before. I can't remember the last time I went out and thought to myself at the end of the day, 'hey, I was thoroughly happy today'. Despite this, I am not unhappy. It is this grey area in which I have been nested for the longest time. This meshy indifference has made me feel almost void of real emotion. I laugh, but somehow it doesn't seem genuine because I am not truely happy. I cry, but there really isn't reason enough to shed any tears. Time passes for me, by the minute, hour, day, and so on. It doesn't jettison by, because perhaps it just isn't eventful. When your life is small, all trivialities however frivolous are magnified. Maybe that explains why I dwell on things so much. I can't help it, because I'm a sentimental fool, a cynical bitch choked with compassion, nostalgia and melancholia.
Back to my day. Mavis and I were walking down Acland Street when we saw a desk tidy (it was more like a little name card storage box) with a miniature zen garden on top. This is what happens when selling Asian exotica goes overboard. It was also the most hideous object I had seen in awhile.
On my way home from the city, it was foggy, dark, and bloody freezing. Every step I took, I pondered over the feasibility of my bearing this dose of melancholia every winter for the rest of my life here. Very daunting prospect. No wonder the Russians drink so much. Apart from keeping warm, it keeps them merry in that god-forsaken weather.
By the time I got home, I'd almost forgotten how cheery I had been this morning. Sitting in bed writing this, with my new bedside lamp (with a cherry-wood base, VERY zen looking), I am once again zapped back into the comfort zone of indifference. Sans excitement, sans dread, sans enthusiasm about tomorrow.
