"They're writing words of love, but not for me."

Night falls! Thud!

I'm sitting here trying to unscramble my mental state. I've noticed of late that at this time of the evening all the minor emotional charges of the day finally reach some type of critical mass. And you begin to experience a dull, numb sensation, and you feel as if you're weeping on the inside. Nothing makes much sense. At one level, I can recognize this as a chemical imbalance. but that makes it no less difficult.

Today I've had some Gershwin lyrics running through my brain. "They're writing words of love, but not for me." Simple and beautifully stated words. And for whatever reason, they seem so very appropriate.

It's curious how often this sentiment appears in one form or another in the journals I read. In some cases, the writer spews the words across the screen. In others, it appears as a brief, passing comment. And in some, it hides among the lines.

PAX!