TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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I am always melancholy on this day, the second day after Christmas. Well, Christmas is ever a blue time for me. It seems to exacerbate my usual sense of worthlessness and emotional detachment. Last week, several friends requested my current mailing address, and I was like, Why bother?
Granted, I was very ill, taking to my bed after a disastrous effort to look for cards in the shops. As my back started to ache and drops of sweat beaded my forehead in Eason's, I thought: where are the cards to capture your ambivalence? to note the weird memories you can't seem to let go? to mournfully acknowledge dying or dead relationships?
It all seems useless nowadays. Why bother expressing feelings, real or fake? Why write anything longer than your signature? Why wish for peace, when people are rabid to hate and kill? I just want to hide away in a den full of books, and pretend the world of men did not exist.
Anyways. I have to snap out of it. I must. And that is why I wrote this goddamn note.