Strange how you forget

I wrote this, well, I don't know when. It has to have been fairly recently; it's in my most recent journal, and because of where it was located on a random page in the back, it probably is from within the last 4 weeks or so. And it's strange; I don't remember writing it, but thought I'd put it here as an example of how I was feeling until very recently.

He said start writing to manage your grief. I don't know if his definition of grief includes that which builds up inside you but isn't so much from loss as from the heavy piling on of everything. Unless it's the loss of a sense of self. I don't know.

I sometimes wonder if mine is a manufactured sadness; false in some way. An inherited habit, a legacy of tears. The women in my family carry a weight of grief, passed down like a surname; it disguises itself and seems lost, but with a little investigation, I learn of her tears and her rages and her dark laughter.

In my tiny bedroom with it's dirty walls, I've begun to enjoy the stillness, I think, too much. Through the unopened window, I can hear my neighbor, name unknown, hammering efficiently. And far away, on the street, I can hear the cars, busy swishing down the street.

My roommate's fat old cat is napping in the crook of my back; a tiny living heater in gray marble.

I'm not sure why I've let this anti-social melancholy blanket me, but to fight it, I want to cook. Or drink. If only I could motivate myself to move into the kitchen. I'm surrounded by books and bill that keep weighing me down.