Tom Ramcigam (magicmarmot) wrote,
Tom Ramcigam
magicmarmot

It is a puzzlement


Passion.

It's a word that I hardly recognize anymore. It seems to have left my presence, much like Elvis and the proverbial building.

My days are pretty much filled with drudgery and cake, and not so much cake. Because cake would be good, and I can't have good now, can I?

I miss being home. I miss being with friends. I miss my pup. I miss cuddling. I miss being able to sleep well.

I have a buttload of DVDs to watch. Heck, more than a buttload. (How many DVDs can you fit up your butt?) Yet I can't seem to work up the desire to pop a DVD in the player. I watched half of 'House on Haunted Hill' (Geoffrey Rush version) with the commentary, and got bored.

I feel ill. I don't want to be working. I want to go home and sleep. I feel stagnated. I feel restless.

It's not like I don't have stuff to do. I have a screenplay to write. I have corpses to make. I have an apartment to clean (though it's actually pretty clean right now). I need to go see Sky Captain and Shaun of the Dead. I need to go to a haunted house here in Des Moines.

Nothing seems like fun.

Like the skin of a dying man.

Where has my passion gone? Is it buried under the rubble of the shattered remains of my life? Is it hung in carbonite suspension waiting to be rescued, stuck in a perpetual scream? Is it in my bottom left-hand dresser drawer? The back of the refrigerator? Behind the couch? Has it gone where all the socks go?

Am I just old and cynical? Mold and clinical? Deafening hardware suspense and rabbinical?

I need downtime. And I'm not going to get it real soon. My brain is starting to ooze like molasses out of my ears, and there's not much I can do but get a drip pan so I don't get any stains on the carpet.

Massage. Hot tub. Relax. Float. Spin. Rinse. Lather. Repeat.
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