(The only real benefit of hotels is that with the wonders of housekeeping, you get to spend even more time on your dark thoughts, instead of being distracted by chores.)
The true hallmark of someone who’s depressed is not that he’s often found sitting alone in a corner crying, but that he doesn’t give a fuck about anything that’s going on around him—no matter how much he used to enjoy the happenings or how important they ought to be to him.
Here I am, in an arguably beautiful city, a place I haven’t visited in over a decade, and I still don’t have the slightest urge to pick up my camera and shoot a picture. Or leave the hotel and go out and see, or perhaps even do, something interesting. Or leave the bed of my hotel room and actually manage to step out and try to mingle.
I can’t believe that even while travelling, a bulk of my thoughts are devoted to feeling sorry for myself; frequently going over something that could only be described as “bullet points in a résumé mocking my pathetic existence.”
You know, the kinds that read “Relationships: Two, failed. Miserably. Plus one affair with a woman who was out of bounds.”
Cheery read that. Fuck.
I don’t even see the point of writing this anymore. I’m turning-off the lights now.