Moping

I can't help wondering over this past year. Moping is probably a better word for it. God but it has been long...

This evening I spent alone, slowly rotating a goblet full of dirt-cheap wine in my palm & asking myself rhetorical questions, none of which I shall repeat here. I'm thinking about life & politics & music & art & all those other things that are just impossible to get one's hands around firmly. But then if one were able to latch onto these things in a concrete & controlling fashion would they honestly be satisfied or is the pleasure in the chase alone? Is there more importance in the reason to living or in the simple, basic act of living itself? Is art in it's purest & truest form as a final, finished product or in the processes taken to acheive that finality? Is art ever truly 'finished'? Is life ever truly 'reasonable'?
What terribly big thoughts I'm thinking this evening, Christopher...

There is so much going on right now, I'm not at all sure of anything. The quarter-life crisis isn't full of new experiences, I'm not aswim in new emotions or situations, it is just that even with my tumultuous past it still feels as if I haven't anything to weigh or judge my current state of affairs against. {& by the way, I'm not meloncholy right now, I'm just near drunk... I think I should clarify that point} I'm not worried, or scared; anxious or distressed or ambivalent. I am happy & bright & caring & careful & a Jew. I am also confident that it is of a lower temperature in my apartment than it is outside, & I'm fighting off a cold.