Neville, a boy after my own heart

I haven't been feeling well lately. Actually, things have been a bit cloudy for a few days; a combination of personal health, personal life, and personal strife. Today, I spent in bed-- not in a 'I need a few extra hours of sleep to recuperate' sort of way-- or even in an 'I'm a lazy kitty soaking up the sun' sort of way. No, this was much more of an 'I am too 'too' to get out of bed, and all the while loathe to stay.' Today, my apathy could not be combatted by any amount of chocolate, the allure of Paris calling me from my window (just a few steps from my bed), or the anticipation of an important email, which sadly, has yet to make its way into my inbox.
I spent today looking too closely at my nails and cuticles; the manicure and pedicure I had just before I left now destroyed by (respectively) nervous biting and hours of walking/touring about the city. They are a mess, as is my hair (which I have stopped styling all together-- I shampoo/condition it everyday and leave it dry in its own very Prince Valiant way [a bad hair cut that I am still paying for), and my skin (finally evening out after the initial shock of being here). I wasted away a good hour in front of the mirror just gawking at how much I've aged since the last time I spent an hour in front of the mirror just gawking; when did I get so wrinkly, so fat, so pale, so tanned, have I lost weight?
If you aren't familiar with the rather debilitating sensation of ennui, please allow me to share:
A desperation for sensation, and greatness, anxiety and temptation. A yearning, an itching to act, to do-- but never enough desire to actually do anything. An overcoming feeling of fatigue, dissatisfaction at everything that lies in front of and behind me. And, of course, to be completely and utterly void of emotion--happy or sad, excited, angry, energetic, pain, or pleasure.
Yes, this was my mood. All day long. I read about ten pages into 20,000 Leagues. They have only just found the Nautilus-- which they still think is a monstre-- they haven't even met Nemo, let alone boarded the sous-marine. Which means I haven't even breached 1 of their 20,000 leagues! I also spent about a half an hour tanning on the balcony while the maid cleaned my room-- but I was asleep for most of that, so it doesn't really count as an activity as much as a change of location.
And because I wasted away the day on my convertible sofa bed (Living in an IKEA), I felt incredibly bloated, indulgent, pitiful, self-centered, ect. Why is it I feel guilty for suffering from something out of my control?
Tomorrow, I vow, to get out of my house, to put some sidewalk under my feet-- even if it comes with random piles of dog poo.





the above painting is by CARLO PITTORE