Sydney, here I come (unenthusiastic "yay"..)

Why is it that every time before a trip, I suddenly realise that I don't want to go anymore?

Ok, so maybe I'm being a little (a lot) stupid and I know this is not a great six month scary adventure away from all that I love and know and cherish, but instead is a two day weekend to a friend's wedding... buuuut.... I still don't want to go :S I admit, I'm looking forward to getting out of Melbourne for the first time since coming home, and I look forward to my two nights off work, and I look forward to seeing the most lovely pb and our friend the wedding man, and I look forward to hopefully some yummy food, and I look forward to meeting my newest Sydney lovely Miss Confusionist and I look forward to a night of clubbing (something I don't usually enjoy but have had the occasional habit of indulging in) and I look forward to the possibility of meeting some new lovelies on our night out, and I look forward to just not thinking about uni because I don't and can't do anything about it while I'm over there anyway.... (ok, so there's a lot to look forward to)

BUT (!!!!)

I don't look forward to getting dressed up (formal really doesn't suit me) and I don't look forward to the stress of packing and I don't look forward to my inevitable stress when returning and mostly I don't look forward to being without internet access for three WHOLE days :S Ok, I can obviously find an internet cafe if I must, but something has happened to me over the mid-sem break. I think I have cultivated an unhealthy (although very uplifting and entertaining [but also paranoia-inducing and self-esteem- diminishing]) addiction to the net.

Here's what's happening:

I think I am falling. Falling into a deep, unredeeming, and infinitely inescapable hole. Sometimes the hole is bright, sometimes it is dark, mostly it is just murky and unreadable. And we all know how much readability matters!

This fall was totally unexpected. Ok, so it looked kind of interesting and I admit a certain attraction to the unknowable adventure that it disguised, and I admit too that I had not anticipated the depth and suction power of this hole. And now I'm stuck. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

See, I wouldn't mind so much if I had been completely consumed, because then I wouldn't know the possibility of escape. The problem is: I DO know the possibility of escape and I DO know the possibility of drowning too, and I kind of want to sink into it, because I know that in my heart of hearts this is what I want, that is, if it IS what I think it is, and it IS what I want it to be, and then I would have no problem with drowning, death isn't half as scary as Love, which is possibly the more important problem, but whatever, no one understands anyway, but my problem is I'm too bloody scared to even test it, to possibly drown in the hope of it...

The ability to be incomprehensible is both a gift and a curse and I feel sorry for those that have been sucked into conforming and making sense and only having the time to understand that which is understandable, because anyone can make sense, it's just not as fun :P

I don't pretend that this is any type of good writing. What it is, is it's writing. Pure and simple. And if I can still write, then all is good. As long as my fingers continue to tip tip tap and scritch and scratch then I know I'll be ok, cos this is how it is. This is all reality in a nutshell, it is writing, it is discourse and it's not at all real. Sorry folks, the truth is out: there is none.

I need a hug..