The last photo I scanned before the most recent bout of trapped-in-bed depression.

Sometimes they get me in, sometimes they get me out.


Why is it so hard to just be? Why is it so hard to reconcile the past and present? The is and might-be?


I don't make many statements here,  mostly questions, I realize this. I accept it, but I could also make an effort. Leaving the house requires such herculean strain it should be enough in itself, but then there are emails and phone calls and feeding myself and making money and staying alive in all the ways and it's too much. All I can do is take pictures and think and cry and think and curl up in a ball and think. Sometimes I can't even do that.

I'm in the same muck as always, wondering why I can't force myself to do the things I know I enjoy and want to do, the things that would make me happy and less miserable. Not having done them just makes me more disappointed in myself.

Blah, blah, blah, disappointment, depression, blah, blah, blah.

Most of the good things I have done recently are food-making and food-eating. This fall I've managed to be more social, but that really cuts into my sleep and creates a loneliness vacuum when I'm back by myself. I decided to just go with it but I'm really not okay with staying and getting up so late every night. The lack of light is getting to me.  Sometimes I think I subsist mainly on light.

Reykjavik harbor, almost exactly one year ago.

In Iceland in November there isn't close to enough light to go around.

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