Transitory

My journal has become a mélange of pent-up emotions struggling to break free, of spur-of-the-moment ideas and fragmentary thoughts blended into one confused mess. It’s crammed with slips of paper written with disjointed paragraphs and phrases like “the buffering effect of trite language,” “the curse of Tiresias,” “a roving bacchanalia” and “the killing of blastocysts” - ideas I must have intended as topics for an article or as objects of curiosity that I wanted to explore.  Some made me laugh, a few made me wonder. But one thing struck me the most as I read through these random notes: I cannot recall when and why I wrote most them.

This, for example:

Again

It’s the same old feeling once again, when you just want to crawl under the covers and muffle every sight and sound.  The voice in your head just won’t stop, and you need somebody to talk to, but you feel as though you’ve already exhausted that privilege to be listened to with your cyclic bouts of depression and your life’s endless drama. You thought you’d make it to the end of the year without plunging into these depths. You were wrong.

It is not dated, and I cannot remember what made me write it. I just know that I felt so dejected then that writing about it would somehow make me feel better. It must have. Or, by just going through the motions of life and letting things be, I must have moved past that wretched state without my noticing it. But how can I not remember something that obviously affected me in such an agonizing way before?  The hopes and frustrations that consumed me in the past are present now merely as memories.  So many things in life are transitory, even emotions.  Every time I feel like I’m not going to make it, I always do. The moment passes, and life goes on.