An unfamiliar feeling of melancholy last night: in bed, under blankets, reading Bentham. Feeling extraordinarily drained, longing to switch the lights off and go to sleep, yet unable even to doze off between chapters the way I normally do; genuinely fascinated with this man and his thought, yet listless and distracted thinking about events of the weekend; trying to snap out of being annoyed with myself, yet unwilling to actually do so because I think I should suffer a bit more first (how very Catholic); usual reluctance to sleep when my mind is racing and won’t stop, suddenly replaced with a yearning to escape all that and think of nothing.
At one point Roads (Portishead) was playing. Thank goodness it wasn’t the version off Roseland NYC Live, which feels like Pathos walking the world. Then we’d really be in for some Dawson’s Creek moments.