It's been one of those days, Diary. It's been one of those days, all the way from when I decided to swing my legs over the edge of my bed and sit up. My head was unclear, and fuzzy, as if filled with cotton, or cobwebs. Heavy, as if filled with wet snow. Every time I leaned it to either side it got even heavier, to the point where I thought it would just fall off unless I maintained balance, keeping my neck straight under it.
In retrospect, it seems like my brain was attempting communication. Go back to bed, Alexander, it would say. Go back to bed and fall asleep, because you are not going to feel any better, and nothing will come of this day. Go to sleep, and dream of promises and pleasantries.

But you know how it is. Sometimes, simply tapping people on the shoulder isn't enough. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer. I got up, and I have spent the day doing various degrees of nothing, every so often forcefully shaking my head in an attempt to clear the haze, and focus. Another drop to an ocean of squandered time.

So you just sit there, all day, and all night. And you are alone, but that's ok because you are quite alright with being alone. But you are not just alone, you are lonely - and you certainly don't feel lonely very often. So you grit your teeth in defiance, determined to wait it out. So I sit here, refusing to go to bed and let the day get off until it stops dodging and looks me in the eyes. Come here, and tell me you don't have anything for me. Tell me, and I'll let you go.
Then, I think I wouldn't have to be lonely. I'm isolating myself, because I'm incapable of reaching out and admitting I need anyone's help. And that someone should happen to crash into my existence right now, right when I need it, is too much to ask for. Chance doesn't check in on guys with track records of being alone and fine with it.

So you sit there, lonely, and you feel that a mistake has been made. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It must have been some petty, off-chance misunderstanding, separating minds that if they only properly understood each other would be bound together by indissoluble ties. All of it, so unnecessary.

So you sit there, but it doesn't help. A day won't let itself be taken hostage, and it slips between your fingers and passes through locked doors. There are no hands on your head, no absolution. It doesn't get better.

When you gaze long enough into the abyss
the abyss also gazes into you.