On an Ocean Metaphor

Emotions, like waves, come rolling in from the ocean. Sometimes there's calm, peace, tranquility, like sitting on the beach at midnight, moon overhead, and the lights of distant ships on the horizon barely visible through the mist. Sometimes they crash in waves, kicked up by storm or tide.

Today, emotions crashed against the shore with a tsunami's force. Somewhere, deep below the surface, something mysterious happened–plates shifted, krakens surfaced. I don't know what, I don't know why, but what had been a nice, pleasant day descended, in the span of five minutes, into a dark, bewildering, confusing experience that left me wanting, for no discernable reason whatsoever, to cry uncontrollably. If I seem vague, it's because even I lack specificity. If I seem confused, it's because I am. Between one moment and the next, I went from feeling positive and upbeat to feeling utterly despondent and near suicidal.

Strange.

I feel somewhat better now. House, frankly, bored me tonight and I turned it off after fifteen minutes–I simply could not muster the energy or the interest, and I found the whole idea of House taking a bullet in the jugular, severing the artery according to Cameron, and being something that he could survive, let alone function and walk after two days in a coma, to be utterly improbable given the sheer amount of blood he would have lost from the wounding. I know–my bullshit meter is set on high sensitivity.

Nothing more to say, really. A good night's sleep should do wonders.

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