I keep thinking I’ll blog, get around to it, so much going on, I need to say something, dammit.

But then I don’t want to because, well, that would mean facing it.

Graduating, I thought, would change a lot of things for me. Magically, I suppose, and so very unrealistically. It wasn’t just a triumph over my attention issues, my lack of stick-to-it-tiveness, but also conquering this melancholy that leaves me, well, incapacitated at times.

I thought of all the nights I sat in panic, fumbling papers and re-reading illegible notes, trying to put a paper together that would mean something, be coherent, get a good grade. And I was proud. Like it was over, like I wouldn’t have to deal with that any more, like demons were gone.

I want to write. I want to write well. I don’t dig the tortured artist motif; I don’t want to be that person.

But here it is, weeks after graduation, unable to find a job, still trapped in the hell of flipping nights, and I realize that nothing has changed, other than I have a piece of paper (presumably, I still haven’t gotten it in the mail) and I’m horribly in debt. The melancholy remains and is, if nothing, exacerbated.

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