Self Medication

I think I've said on more than one occasion that writing works like therapy for me, but so far it has only been a side effect; I haven't previously forced myself to write to feel better. Never have I considered writing as a foul medicine that could be swallowed in spoonfuls for a quick remedy. Well, tonight I thought I should give it a try, have to get back in to writing mode anyway pretty soon, next semester is approaching faster than an avalanche.

Got back from Sweden yesterday after having spent Christmas there with my family. We had a wonderful time, but I don't believe I'm the only one who suffers from feeling a little bit blue after the holidays, so today I have been doing nothing really, just walking aimlessly around in the apartment. When the evening finally came I resigned and hit the couch like a overcooked vegetable soaked in melted butter.

I don't think a bottle of wine and three sloppy American movies (1, 2, 3) about true love and miracles ever have done anything good to anyone, and tonight wasn't an exception. A TV concert with James Blunt, with him singing even sloppier "Goodbye My Lover, Goodbye My Friend" kind of pushed me over the edge. After that obscene emotional marathon my eyes had the same color as Rudolph's nose, and my head felt both empty and in pain at the same time. (Much like having the flu...) The least thing I thought I'd do was writing, had no inspiration and I felt I had nothing to tell. And then why should I?

I thought of all the nice pictures I took this week, all the fun we had, and all the strange things that had happened, but nothing seemed to be relevant. At least I didn't know whom to address it to. I still don't, and if it helped at all writing this post I don't know, you'll have to ask me tomorrow. Until then you can have a look at a few of my Christmas pics. And yes, those Yellow Foots, were picked on Christmas Eve, which under normal circumstances wouldn't be possible.