One of my previous posts involved the question of happiness. Is there a point in which we can reach its apex? What is the meaning of happiness anyway? I think ever since I started questioning my ability to be not only content, but truly happy, sources of joy and excitement have seemingly been lifted away.
Now, I am surrounded by Sylvia Plath and T.S. Eliot. Why absolutely depressing is that? And I realize that I'm so easily stirred by the slightest mishap; I'm overly emotional and I seem to lack a fervent amount of zest for life. To state it simply, I think I'm in a slight rut, except it's really a trough. I'm watching life swim by overhead, but I have neither the ability nor strength to extend and reach.
Maybe it's just the winter blues. I can't wait for spring; it weaves an extensive fabric of sunshine and warm air and I can't wait to be immersed in such an idyllic setting again.
