these things

I have been impossible to live with lately. There's a scene in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban where Ron is explaining what the presence of the Dementor felt like. He says it felt as though he'd never be cheerful again. I'm afraid I have been like that Dementor spirit, uncheerful and unfailing in my attack of sadness and grief. What I am mourning I don't quite know. I once wrote a letter to Michelle about the dailyness of life dragging one down and I don't know if it's that or the stress, but I've been unlikeable. These things, I say to myself, these things and I think of Bukowski and this poem:

These Things

by Charles Bukowski

these things that we support most well 
have nothing to do with up, 
and we do with them 
out of boredom or fear or money 
or cracked intelligence; 
our circle and our candle of light 
being small, 
so small we cannot bear it, 
we heave out with Idea 
and lose the Center: 
all wax without the wick, 
and we see names that once meant 
like signs into ghost towns, 
and only the graves are real.