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I’ve been feeling pretty out of it this past week. But the worst part of it is that I don’t even mean that in a bad way: what I am “out of” is the familiar thrum of my usual malaise, and instead I’ve been possessed by something that, if I were more naive, I might have confused for happiness. It feels like a vigorous, thrashing mode of joyousness, not entirely distinct in some moments from outright mania. It almost feels as if I’ve fallen in love, this dizzying, hurtling sensation; although lacking an obvious subject, I’ve simply found myself tumbling headlong through the darkness of my own interiority, fumbling uselessly for a semblance of direction. I have no idea how this came about. What caused it, or when it even started. The abject loneliness of my work has become apparent to me in the midst of all this.