I’m not sure if it’s the weather or going back to the farm on Saturday, but I’ve got a bad case of ennui. Perhaps it’s also due to Emily mentioning she had ennui. Maybe I am an emotional copycat.

I’ve been numbly going through my Inbox, trudging through each item. Following the thread from one to the next…responding to a comment on Wordlush about the trip…remembering to upload my photos to Flickr…deciding to change my buddy icon…blah blah blah.

My ennui is exacerbated by the fact that I just got a new doo-hicky for my chair called a YogaBack. It’s meant to fit in a car seat, but it works reasonably well to make my office chair more ergonomic. However, my muscles, being used to their wontan laziness, are still protesting. Maybe we don’t want our sacrum supported they say. Maybe we don’t care if we are slouching. Maybe we liked it better that way.

Ennui is like this: a pervasive blandness. My stomach is mildly queasy. Food seems inedible. Laboring seems pointless. I want to sleep and cry, cry in my sleep. It seems like I’m dozing but my eyes are open. I feel tired, melty.

Maybe it was those weird mushrooms. If this were Star Trek, the weird mushrooms would have some how affected us. The invisible spores released by us poking at it would have travelled up into our brains and latched onto our sensation centers and overwhelmed them.

However, this is not Star Trek. It’s probably normal depression sparked by stirring up old childhood loneliness. That farm…it’s so barren to me. I know to other people it’s lush and full of life. But to me it’s stark, desolate, bleak, forsaken, cold.

Yes, it is exploding with water and trees and leaves and deer and bugs and cows and dirt. But a girl can’t live on scenery alone.

I want to hibernate. When I need to recover, my system shuts down. I think that’s part of the purpose of depression. Forced integration.

Bleah.