My fear of losing emotions is ludicrously unfounded. I can suppress my feelings for no longer than thirty seconds, max. Be that as it may, the memories I value most are those that are most emotionally loaded. I never feel realer (i.e. think less about how I am feeling) than when I am in it, 100% paranoid anxiety-attack depression queen, convinced someone is in the room with me, certain I have destroyed everything, afraid to turn my head for what I might see down the hall. There is no greater purity of thought than what you say to yourself during a panic attack. There's no going back, no self-examination, no second opinion. They're the most clearly plotted moments of narrative selfhood I've ever experienced as an adult.

Writing this, I'm watching a train drive straight towards my window through the dark, loud and bright and steady.

Can you tell that I binge-listened to Serial two days ago and can handle uncertainty no better than ever?

On the topic of depression, I don't know if I've ever experienced the kind of depression that is unfeelingness, dismal, empty, or blank, the way I've heard it described. Maybe emptiness in the sense that a black hole is vast and terrifying in its emptiness. When I'm depressed it's despair, absolute sadness and hopelessness, the weighted-down pain of the stretch of existence and the brevity of consciousness. Maybe this isn't depression, maybe it's just consciousness itself.

Another train just went by the other way, invisible in its assault on the rails.

Can you tell I'm applying for jobs again? It gets like this.