Torture

I went to class yesterday. We talked about poetry and torture and Harold Bloom. It happens. I had a bit to say about the torture part.

Then I went to the Red Poppy, where there were the coolest people ever, having some drinks and talking about art and everything else. Some people left, and Meklit and Todd played us a song. I know that I am somewhat jaded. But their song was one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard, and actually got me all misty-eyed. I just read that line, and it sounds sarcastic, but I assure you, it is entirely sincere.

Sometimes you look around and realize that there is no place else you would rather be. Sometimes joy just falls right on you. Sometimes I am happy. But when you are able to really notice it, when you are able to say to yourself, "this is exactly what I have always wanted," that is very special and worth crying over.

Back in Berkeley, I realized that I had only slept around six or seven out of the past seventy-two hours. I went to a house where I was tortured. I ended up not sleeping.

I came home around six A.M., tortured and melancholy. I slept for five hours. It was good.

Then, many of my friends coincidentally wanted to hang out with me. They cheered me up. We talked about poetry and poetry and other stuff, too. A little about the torture, but mostly about poetry and things written down.

I love my friends. I talk about them a lot on this blog. Sometimes this blog is joking. But this is entirely sincere: without my friends, I would be much more sad and get much less sleep than I do.