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Sometimes it surprises me that I'm consistently happy these days. Not so long ago, things were different. Back when I was depressed, during my dark half-decade of the soul, I could barely remember what happy was. The possibility of sustaining it for longer than a night seemed remote. And hell, it made sense. Despair itself was somehow a comfort--it seemed the only logical reaction to the world, and relieved one of the burden of having to ever really care about anything. (And if you assumed that everything only got worse--well, you were never dissapointed.)
But now, I look on those times and can't imagine I was ever that way, or that I could be again. I feel remakably disconnected from that previous state, even unsympathetic to it. It makes me think there isn't any point trying console the depressed. Happy can't speak to despair and vice versa--they're just not in the same world. It's like falling out of love with someone, and then looking back and being bewildered that you ever felt that way.
In fact, it's *exactly* like that. I was in love with despair, and now I'm not and can't understand why I ever entertained that particular suitor. Hmmm... or maybe I can... perhaps more later on my rainy Portland nights and the comforts of despair.

Well, on a cheerier note: I survived Valentine's day with no significant disasters. The neo-burlesque show was actually kinda dissapointing, but fun was had anyway. And Monday I went to see my sister do her performance poetry thing at the Funky Buddha. After, we went to The Tasting Room--a kind of swanky wine bar that on Monday has 1/2 off on all glasses of wine. I tried several great wines and had a lovely croque monsieur sandwich (a fancified French grilled ham & gruyere cheese sandwich). So I was a bit hung-over today, but sweated it out at the gym and now am feeling pleasantly tired and even (heck, why not) happy.

Currently listening to: A Lonesome Day Today, by The Dickel Brothers.
Currently Reading: The Story of Philosphy by Will Durant