Melancholy and the Infinite Corridor

Well, Sunday started out pleasantly but has become quiet: the whir of the air conditioning, the distant murmur of students, the ceiling full of fluorescent light trys to keep me underwater - and a mere 30 feet away the July light of the sun reflects off of the green leaves.

I'm sure during the week I will think of a million things I could have done constructively with my down time in the copyshop here, but for now I can just sit on this uncomforatble stool and feel the light breeze from the small fan and be encased in glass and artificial light, like an egg in an incubator.

One hour and 20 minutes until I am released back into the world: laundry awaits, then some cleaning the apartment.

Can you write yourself out of a momentary depression? Maybe sometimes, but not today. I think I would rather be reclining on a plush couch watching TV, instead of perched on an uncomfortable stool staring at my typed letters appear on the 17" flat panel Mac screen.