I had been waiting for the right one to come along my whole life. My mistake was thinking she was waiting for me too.

It’s been a particularly trying week. I’ve been feeling so jaded. Broken. Helpless. Undefined.

Both the cause and the consequence is that I’ve been sleeping terribly lately. Next week I’m going to try to have a more self-control and stay on a strict schedule. Bring some order into my life.

I tried to make an appointment with my therapist, since I have $300 mental health coverage with my work per calendar year (although this only amounts to two sessions). Unfortunately, I need a referral from my family doctor to claim the coverage, because referrals are only good for one year, and it’s been that long since I saw him.

I think of how judgmental my dad was when I told him I was seeing a psychologist. But then I realize that he’s probably the only person I feel like I can really talk to right now (my therapist, not my dad). I wish I could talk to my friends, but my thoughts are either too embarrassing to admit to them, or too complicated for them to understand.

I’ve been listening to some quiet, sombre stuff lately. Trying to acquire a taste for Leonard Cohen’s middle years, when he traded in his guitar for horns and violins, even some Depeche Mode. Depeche Fucking Mode. It hasn’t been helping.

I just don’t know what to do with myself lately. But I’m pretty sure I really need to cry right now.

Hi, and welcome back to another episode of “Télévision Educative”. Tonight, I’ll show you how dreams are prepared. People think it’s a very simple and easy process but it’s a bit more complicated than that. As you can see, a very delicate combination of complex ingredients is the key. First, we put in some random thoughts. And then, we add a little bit of reminiscences of the day…mixed with some memories from the past.

I slept through the night. This means I’m either exhausted or complacent. I’m not sure if I want complacent because it probably means I’m resigned.

Resignation is so depressing. At the same time, it’s a certainty that brings comfort, the same way hope is both torturous and inspiring.

“And working is the best remedy, then? Keeps your brain busy.”

“How can you work? Love is too powerful. You can’t concentrate.”

I’ve been working the last two weekends, trying to catch up on time I lost while I was away. I really couldn’t afford to take so much leave from work without pay, and there are deadlines for projects I’ve taken up on the side.

This weekend was especially productive. I got a lot done, but there’s so much more to go. It seems like there’s never enough time, so I just keep my head down and work through it.

I haven’t had much a break since I’ve been back. So this is my break. The written word.

Feels like I’m sleepwalking, lucid, unsure of what’s real or what I’m feeling. This morning I asked myself, “Have I really woken up yet?”

I’ve come to realize that I cling to pain and yearning because they give me inspiration. They may not be the sole source, but certainly a great deal. I always listen to Leonard Cohen and Elliot Smith during such moods, as they have the ability to intensify and deepen the sadness.

I can tell it’s something of a destructive habit. It’s almost like I subconsciously choose to dwell on things that have been resolved for the sake of something to write about.

It makes me think of the last lines from King Missile’s song Ed:

“Yes, this is the answer. This is the ending. I shall keep on running, because a body in motion tends to stay emotional, and it’s better to feel. Pain is better than emptiness, emptiness is better than nothing, and nothing is better than this.”

Is this how I feel alive, a way of bringing significance to my life? Or is this the way I truly feel, and I’m simply a slow healer, and too much of a thinker?

Or perhaps the better question is this: does happiness inspire me just as much?

My room is a mess, a side-effect of my busy schedule. I should be cleaning. Hell, I should be sleeping, but I’d rather write instead, seeing as how I haven’t had a chance in four days. It would appear as if I’m going through some sort of expression withdrawal.

Vincent Gallo practically wrote this entry for me.

(If you’re going to listen to this song, turn the lights down, or at least close your eyes. Remove yourself of any ambient noise. Breathe slowly for 30 seconds before playing it. This song deserves it. You deserve it.)

Even though it went up to 28°C today, the morning started cold and calm. There was so much moisture in the air that one could taste the grey.

It made me strangely stoic when I left the house. Something about the whether that reminded me of how comforting it can be to feel sad. It’s as if the earth had decided to compliment my mood with cloud cover. I can’t even explain the cause of my sadness, and can only guess that realization and acceptance are setting in. The only saving grace is that I feel confident enough to pick myself up and move on. Not that I want to do it alone right now. Wish I had the option.

As the day dragged on, things started to wear me down. Exhaustion dried my eyes. I kept trying to pick myself up, kept trying to hide my sighing sadness from those around me, to no avail.

Wish I had a smile in my wardrobe for days like this.

Which is why we can never truly prepare ourselves. We may see it coming, we may understand why, but that never makes it any easier.

Every day is a chance to heal.

It became painfully obvious that my turn-on of girls crying is related to my own penchant for sad lovemaking.

I’ve always liked the idea of bringing someone from tears to blissful physical pleasure. Like make-up sex without the fighting.

A girl was able to do that for me once, so I’ve always wanted to be able to do it for someone else.

Either that, or my sadness is mingling with my lust.

I’m in a bad way

My sleeping schedule is upside down. I’m lovesick. I’m heartbroken. I can’t eat anything without shitting blood. My lips are chapped. My teeth keep grazing my canker sore. I’m breaking out. I’m dreading another day of work.

But I’d still rather be alone, than be with you.

Crank it. Loud, and maybe you’ll understand how I feel.

I’ve been in such a slump the last week. Maybe I’m over-worked, over-tired, and over-stressed. Things haven’t been going my way.

It’s filled me with such frustration, sadness, and anger.

Now I’m left to face the ugly world alone, and all I can think is to never put your trust in someone. Never be dependent, never expect anything from anyone because you’ll only get hurt.

I try to rationalize everything and follow the Tao, but I can’t. Everything is so overwhelming.

As much as I’ve learned, as much wisdom as I’ve gained, as far as I’ve come, I’m still human.

This used to be my favourite season.

I don’t even know why. Christmas was always about tedious gatherings. Each parental group of friends and family — consisting only of Chinese people — would take turns hosting parties. As one of the “kids”, I was thrust in a room with the other sons and daughters. People I only saw once a year, with whom I had nothing in common. Some years, I’d go to six different houses in two weeks.

My parents would always host New Year’s. Some time ago, with the money I earned from my first job, I bought them a classy fondue set and fondue book for them to use as hosts. They never opened the box, or even cracked the spine of the book. It broke my heart.

Monetary certificates. Sweaters. Cheap stationary. Nothing personalized. Nothing from the heart. Nothing I ever needed or wanted. It was merely a display of how little people knew or cared about me. It would have meant more if they gave the money to charity.

The one reprieve during the holidays was being able to see Darren, sneaking out in the middle of a party to get stoned with him, or hanging out with John.

Then why did the holidays mean so much to me?

Maybe it was the atmosphere. The snow. The memories of Christmas in Hong Kong. The fact that people who had nothing in common would put up Christmas lights. Something that everyone believed in.

Even though I’ve received some beautiful, thoughtful gifts for once, even though I don’t really celebrate Christmas, I’m down. It’s too warm for the snow to stay. I didn’t buy presents for anyone. I’m working the short week between Christmas weekend and New Year’s weekend because I can’t afford any time off.

I suppose the holidays are what you make of them.

There have been many generous people — Louise, John, Aaron, Joel, Bronwen, Pat — who opened their houses to me today, but it’s not the same.

To feel like I was part of something, part of a family, as dysfunctional as it was. Because of the divorce, there’s no home to go to for the first time in my life.

Christmas is dead this year, but it’s only a reflection of how dead I feel inside.

This morning I put on Give Up, and for the first time I heard it without a single tinge of sadness. It felt like freedom, as if I could finally have this music to myself now. And at the same time, as much as I cherish all the memories and emotions, it’s nice to be able to say that I’m past it all now, and I can finally share this music with others.

It’s rare that something will make me feel forlorn nowadays, but every so often, something will set me off. I love to stew in those emotions, to appreciate them when I do feel them. Some songs sound totally different, like Battlecry by Grace Like Winter, but there’s nothing like hearing the opening bars of Oddity by Coal Chamber. A song that makes the skin feel like it’s peeling off, that must be loud enough to burn the tympanic membrane. It’s like the body melts, and everything fuses together.

Eventually, everything goes away.

I have to get this down before I lose it.

The new Starsailor album is out this month, and I’m not sure if I’ll buy it. There’s something about the general sound of Starsailor songs that evoke an almost ineffable emotion in me. I never even knew they existed until last month, but for some reason, their 2001 Love Is Here album cover is oddly familiar. Every time I see the sun-washed tracks falling into the horizon, I get an odd sense of déjá vu.

As one who rarely has such an ephemeral, mystical experience, this strikes me as a extremely poignant thing. I feel as if I know this album, that I’ve seen it before, even had emotions associated with it. It’s something I can’t explain, and whether the emotions are good are bad, I can’t recall.

Their music moves me nonetheless. The chord progressions are unpredictable yet dulcet, bitter yet sweet. I can’t decide if it’s sunset or sunrise music, and the album cover serves to emphasize this equivocality. I can’t even tell if the music makes me happy or sad.

And so remains my problem. Do I want to listen to this music or not? I always find it odd that someone would not want to think about or experience something simply because it makes them sad. Doing so seems to be so cowardly, as if one is running from one’s self.

Yet the problem remains, with other music as well, and as clear as this logic is for me I find it difficult to queue up certain songs. Listening to The Postal Service brings back so many amazing, unforgettable memories, but so many painful thoughts as well.

I choose not to ignore either, and end up being emotionally torn, unclear in my heart and in my mind.

I can feel myself getting hyper again. I’m still trying to figure out why. The last time I felt like this was a little over four years ago, but I was a different person at the time so all emotional influences had a different effect. Every song makes me want to sing aloud, every joke makes me want to die laughing. This is probably just the manifestation of a simple excess of emotions, overflowing in my mind. I doubt it will last long.

I wonder if anyone else enjoys making love when they’re sad.