You see, I'm not sure what happened, but I know that it's no good. And then I'm reminded of why I do hate January. It's more than the feeling, it's the nonsensical nature of it. And the fact that it wouldn't be so bad if I didn't arrange things this way. When I won't let anyone comfort me, who is there to blame but a helpless month? Sometimes I... when I'm with people, even close friends, I play happy the way a possum plays itself, as a reflexive move in times of danger. Except that the possum has real worries, and my concept of danger is probably painfully wrong.

I was happy last night, wasn't I? At that stupid party at that stupid bar, we were having fun, all of us. And the Zog! I won't explain the Zog, but if you know who he is and what he does, then you know, as I now do, what entertainment truly is. Why don't I feel now the way I did then, at least a little? I didn't know how not to smile. I don't know how that feeling got away so quickly, or where it went.

This is absurd. I'm wrapping myself in ideas that couldn't but make me sad. Am I allowed this? Is it acceptable behaviour? This feeling has to go somewhere, so I'll try to leave it here in my diary. I know that I probably wouldn't need an entire hand to count the people who'll read this, and that I'm being vague about things anyway, but it seems so... I don't know. It feels like everything I'm thinking is going into these words. As though the keys know from the feel of my fingers what I mean but am not saying. It feels like I'm typing tears. I can't remember the last time I let someone see me cry.

And now I'm embarrassed, and want to delete this whole thing, but if I can't say as little as this here, then this diary is useless anyway, I guess.