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Another maudlin entry
Singing Agathe
The clouds move quickly, hiding the sun that we so bitterly fought for. (I laugh derisively at my own conceit - as if we truly shed blood to cast back the winter. We merely hang on for the ride while forces greater than us wage the war, with us as the unwanted tag-along prize). With the leaves still bare, I feel as if I can see three, four, five times the sky as I used to. The clouds tower over me, rushing by like giants who cannot be bothered, and I curl a little further into myself.

Not that things would be much better if they evaporated into the sky, and I was faced with the earnest, insistent face of the sun. It would poke and prod at me, force me to question the worth of my day, my intention, my life goal. It would be an inferiority of a different sort, brought on not by indifference, but by challenge. Neither is a journey that I can take at the moment.

I don't know how to get better. I don't know how to cast aside this oppressive veil that attempts to hide me from the world - or it from me. I don't know why my heart begins to race sometimes, and my limbs start to bounce, and I suddenly can't DO anything, because what if...? Biochemical or psychological or just plain foul mood, I feel plagued by being other than myself for too long.

And the trouble is, there are too many times when I can brush it aside. At least, that's the perspective from this side of the looking glass. The moments that are bright, when the clouds can't ignore me and the sun can't shame me, those are the moments when I know I can get through this. I have the strength when I don't need it. Snake biting it's own tail. Cycle myself away from myself.