A couple of people stew their DNA together, one of them cooks it up into a body, somewhere along the line it gets married together with consciousness, and, BAM!, you're stuck with it. Blood and bone and muscle and soft organs orchestrate a walking imprisonment for the next several decades.
It's Stockholm syndrome, how we feel for this flesh, identify with it, but I suppose that it's difficult not to be demented under the circumstances.
It is March, the month that marks the onset of spring, but it is also the month that brings on the powerful death throws of my seasonal depression. It is almost as if it has a life of its own and doesn't want to give up its host.
As far as I am concerned, there are too many of us screaming for attention in this body.
Luckily, because I have been working with this seasonal depression thing for thirty-plus years, I know that it is going to sputter out sometime between now and June — I know! The specificity of its timing is remarkable! — but, until then, I have to contend with the following: mild social paranoia, depression, interrupted sleep, anxiety, physical pain, erratic appetite, crying jags, indecisiveness, inability to concentrate, irritability, etcetera, etcetera, blah, blah, my apathy increaseth, whatever, yougettheidea.
Two hours later...
...aaaaand the Palinode and I have prepared and are eating enough pasta and sauce to choke an Italian family of fifteen, even though it's midnight, because I was too distracted earlier to remember that, hey, maybe we should eat food and sustain these stupid meat suits that are all the rage these days.
Does anybody here want to take over the rest of March and most of April and May for me? Thanks.