For the second night in a row I walked almost all the way home from a distant locale. Last night I at least fueled my walk with rage over the particular social circumstances leaving me near the National Cathedral with a transmission-less vehicle driving away. Tonight I walked almost all the way home from Cleveland Park. Yes, before you ask, it was far too late to take the link. I lacked the fuel of yesterday though, so walking past Klingle Park left me tired and willing to take a cab.

This weather continues to beat me down, one raindrop at a time. I try to focus on the present, on the here and now, on the pool game I excelled at, on the meaningless bits of conversation traded back and forth like bad pennies turning up yet again. And again.

I am so tired of the mundane. I am tired of the usual games, of the faux surprises and the need to act annoyed when I have been wronged. I want to whisper in class, I want to tell people what I really think of then, I want to shout out loud my displeasure when things go wrong. Yet I skipped class, am painfully honest and manage to always have things break my way late. In a world defined by a lack of control, I can't even seem to grasp why I want things to skew against my will just to show I still have one. I want to insult that which is beautiful, to degrade all that is holy. I wish to drag everything down just to point out how high it was to begin with.

I may know many things, I may be ignorant. I may sit here with suble notes impacting each word, a verse for a paragraph, a minor chord for an alliterative aside. I am so cold now my fingers have grown numb, fumbling on the keys and producing more errors than actual thoughts. There is no solution except escape.