(As an aside, I have been listening to tracks from AFI's upcoming album Sing the Sorrow, which thus far is incredible, although I expect nothing less from one of the greatest bands ever to grace the earth. If you're curious, and would like to hear something other than the single being played on the radio, "Girl's Not Grey," try this website: Sing the Sorrow. It has a brief review of the album, its track listing, and four songs available as MP3s: "Girl's Not Grey," "This Celluloid Dream," "The Leaving Song Pt. 2," and "Paper Airplanes (Makeshift Wings)"—all are awesome.)

Over the past couple weeks I have been in something of a funk: whether it is merely general depression or a depressive stage in what is likely a swiftly approaching bipolar disorder (both my parents have it, the condition is apparently hereditary, and it's supposed to begin taking effect around my age) I do not know, but it has made life difficult, to say the least. I am suddenly stricken with lethargy, apathy, and an overwhelming urge to simply go to sleep and forget the world around me. This past weekend, I could not wake up before 2 p.m., and therefore was not able to fill out the application for Papyrus until this evening. I haven't been to French in over a week, turned in the rough draft of my final paper for Am. Lit. late, and, generally, have simply stopped caring about anything. From what I have heard, these vaguely resemble the symptoms that suggest suicidal tendencies, but I have no conscious desire to end my life (although that would undoubtedly work wonders for my writings); I suppose this yearning to sleep through the world's burdens could be interpreted as an implicit longing for death, but personally I don't believe myself to be that melodramatic. I shall work through this, however; I always do.

A further concern relates more with the title of this entry: I feel dead to the world, my heart, like that of the speaker of "E Tenebris," barren and anesthetised. I have discussed this with a few of my friends, one of whom I hurt because of my callous and reserved nature, and have come to the conclusion that I let no one in—I do not allow people to get close to me, but rather invariably hold them at a distance. Throughout the years, I have found that whenever I let people into my heart I get hurt; everything I experience reaffirms that still more strongly. In elementary school I once ran home sobbing every day, convinced that everyone hated me, judging from their harsh mockery and cruel taunts, both of which belittled and demeaned every aspect of me. Then one day I simply decided to erect a shell around myself, to present a stoic faÁade to the world which would withstand degradation; in effect, to detach myself from my deepest emotions. Although I had before worn my heart on my sleeve, only to have it be reduced to tatters by my pernicious peers, I would now no longer fall prey to their insults and ostracism.

Surprisingly, this did not work as I had intended it to. I had presumed that without the satisfying reaction of indignation or despair their ridicule incited, my detractors would stop attempting to hurt me. Instead, they continued, and I merely ceased to care. One might say that this was beneficial, as I stopped worrying about what people thought of me, although really I only became colder, more distant, aloof. I still cared what others thought of me, to a point, and, until recently, I allowed this to dictate my own sense of worth, well-being, and happiness. My indignation and despair were, instead, thrust deep within my psyche, where they would remain until they became too much to bear.

And so I remain today: my heart hardened and embittered by years of derision, rejection, and cynicism, perhaps unable to be pierced even by Cupid's glorious arrow of love. I rarely allow emotion to surface in the stagnant sea of my soul, but rather repress anger and sadness until they overwhelm me after having been pent up for so long. I suppose you could call me a true Intellectual: I live entirely in the mind, essentially devoid of emotional attachment. My relationships, save for a very select few, remain intellectual—rarely do I allow people a glimpse of what I'm truly feeling (if indeed I know myself); I have isolated myself from the world, unfeeling, nearly completely detached from emotion. Although I do consider myself an emotional person, somewhere deep within, that side of me is almost never brought to light. People see me as cold and unemotional, and I hardly blame them. I have been told that I am inscrutable and reserved, trapped in "emotional preschool" while those around me mature emotionally and leave me in the dust. Rather depressing view of life, wot? It is certainly something I shall have to examine further.

But for now it is 3:20 a.m., and I am both physically and emotionally exhausted. Never mind that I have 270 pages of Jane Eyre to read by 3 p.m. today (Thursday): I'm going to sleep. I apologise if this entry was incoherent or jumbled; I am not in the proper state of mind to write with my characteristic cogency. Until next we meet, mes amis, I bid you farewell. Au revoir, tout le monde, and bonne nuit...

[Exit Orpheum.]