You know you're in trouble when you're trying to articulate a feeling you're having and you say to yourself "there's a Sylvia Plath quote that sort of sums this up, if I could only remember it."
Well, this is it:
"I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue. It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it. I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it."
And it's not really as bleak as all of that, my days just seem to be losing definition. And on some level, that makes me fear losing definition.
You know, I can't really complain about my job, or anything else, and sometimes slipping into the monotony of life doesn't seem that bleak, less like monotony and more like rhythm, but I guess somehow, I sort of thought having a master's degree would change something. Oh well. Something like 20 days till David Byrne and the Arcade Fire.