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I always find myself turning to writing (blogging, whatever) at some dark pit. 

Right now I am sitting in the living room area of my pseudo-messy one-bedroom apartment in South Carolina and crying. Not the cleansing sobs or quick tears that leave you feeling better. The deep, dark sadness crying that is the product of an unhappiness you didn't know was actually possible until you find yourself in it.

Someone I didn't even know (but loved) may die tonight. He was shot in the head. He has a beautiful girlfriend who used to be friends with my sister and a not-even-3-year-old daughter.

It's 4.30 in the morning and I'm alone, listening to a Josh Ritter song I haven't heard before and feeling ambivalent about what to put on Facebook. Write stupid post. Think about how other people will read it. Delete.

I've been talking myself into going to bed for two hours now, but my bed's not made and I don't want to sleep on the couch.

I have (another) doctor's appointment in the morning.

I don't really care about "the meaning of life." What I want to know is how people go on living. How do people face their blackest moments — the death of a soulmate, the plate that needs to be put in the dishwasher or at least in the sink, the neglected shoes, the ambivalence toward marriage, war, being in a city or job or maybe even industry that you hate and that is making you sick — how do you keep going? How does everyone get out of bed every day and go to a job they hate? How do people find meaning in other people and in hobbies? How to be an artist?

OxyChem, I need you to come through for me now.


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