What am I doing here? Everything I always thought I wanted is wrong. I look away from the mountains now as if their very being is the reason for my anguish. I have always preached about the insignificance of outside appearances, but if the love of my life is 100 pounds overweight and denied the loveliness of features lined with gold, I will most likely spend the rest of my shallow existence alone. But it’s not just that. June, July, half of August, the remainder of May: how many more days does that make? I knew I would become homesick, but there is nothing to compensate for miserable and intense conditions. There is nowhere to run when a smile can no longer be faked, nowhere to dream about when the stench of the city catches a downwind, nowhere to escape, nowhere to fantasize about when boredom leads to depression because I’m already there.
May 20, 2001