Drift.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I am tired. I am unmotivated. I can’t seem to get anything done.

I don’t think I’m depressed. At the very least, if I am depressed, it’s a whole new ball of wax from all those other depressions I’ve weathered through. I’m not weepy or mopey, specifically, and I don’t feel like a big black cloud is hovering over my head. I laugh as much as usual. I’ve still got my appetite and my libido.

At first I thought I was just lonely. It’s an adjustment to spend my weekdays alone and I figured the initial bloom of solitary-glee was starting to wane. Back when Coffee was here by himself, he often remarked that he missed me greatly during the day – and he’s a considerably less socially-needy person than I am. He could easily go for weeks speaking to no one and not let it bother him one iota. Now that I’m the one home, talking to dogs and rats for company, he’s gone for twelve-hour stretches that make it feel as though I don’t see him at all during the week. I haven’t started doing crazy shit like spending the afternoon in the grocery store just for the company of the cashiers, so I suppose that’s a blessing of some sort.

It feels like I’m doing nothing and, simultaneously, as though there isn’t enough time in the day to attempt something else. That doesn’t even make sense TO ME. But I wake up and I run the dogs and feed them and then.. somehow the rest of the day disappears. Even when I avoid my laptop and my email. Even when I don’t write in my blog. Even when I don’t glance in the direction of the television. I can’t figure out where all the time goes. I can’t figure out where my energy and motivation has gone.