A Tale of a Depressing Disposition

So that was that and this is now. If the present represents anything close to what a depressing disposition would be, I think it's doing a fantastic job. That's maybe something I shouldn't be saying. Before long, someone's going to read, wonder, and predict. And sooner or later it's the norm of society with little leeway unless I claim my disposition different. The worst thing to do in this case is to keep writing. Today's not the day to stop, though, but I think tomorrow's the day to regret not stopping. It's probably the product of melancholy, dare I use that word, when the pinnacle of hope comes crashing down like a planet absent of gravity. Present sadness soon turns into past sadness. With it continues a vicious cycle of convincing yourself not to dwell in the past, only to dwell in it seconds later. Perhaps this is what makes a depressing disposition. Had I realized I had a month to prevent the present, it wouldn't matter. For all my chastising of people for not giving me invites to events, though I do it jokingly and sarcastically, it's odd that I didn't manage to notice the biggest catch of the year until it was too late. For that, as typical as it may sound, I have no one to blame but myself. I mean who misses an open invite to a One Direction concert? Clearly I'm one of those people. The present sucks because I had no idea what I needed to change in the past. Controlling whimsical butterfly-in-stomach moments is damn hard. There couldn't be a more relevant saying than "follow your instincts." I mean if I could compare that feeling to being in pain, it's quite obvious that neither should be ignored. As dim as pain might first feel after falling, the later effects can be magnified beyond reasonable measures. It's clearly something if you're turning heads more than twice and touching the bruise every five minutes in hopes that it's nothing more than, well, a bruise.

This is the beginning of a depression disposition.



A trip to Shanghai

Love Part 2