Since it’s Thanksgiving, you would probably expect me to write about the Dakota Access Pipeline, or the real story of Christopher Columbus that you probably all know about. That would be the most West End thing to do.
Instead I’ll say that I’m thankful. I’m thankful for the last year. I still visit, and revisit, all the old days. They’re just less interesting now than they used to be. They’re less relevant now than they used to be. They don’t occupy my mind like they used to.
A part of me still misses it. It’s a part of me that I hate, but it’s there. When I’ve gone months and years of my life with a certain cocktail of thoughts sliding around my brain, I’ve become an exhibit for what happens when they all leave. The jury is still out on what the exact answer is to such a study.
But you can only go so far when a decent chunk of your identity is being sad. Writing sad things. There’s a natural high in there somewhere, as well as some comfortability, but eventually it all comes down to a choice. It’s not quite to be or not to be, but it’s in that conversation. I’m probably more interesting when I’m stuck in some form of depression. I would rather be a lot less interesting, if that’s the case.