today kept slipping back into morning; i tried to get up but couldn't stay out of bed, snuggling beneath the thick down comforter, skin happily next to skin and flannel sheet. the snow fell all night and into the day, and didn't stop until after we'd showered and even then i wore my pajama pants under my jeans.

there haunts me these days an everpresent fear of failure. or, more accurately perhaps, a fear of negligence; mediocrity. a fear of limbo, of uncertainty, of abstraction. i fear that i will never be truly good at anything. that no passion will ever grip me, that i will never find my siren or my truth. the frenetic whirling of my life spins with anxious fury about a static center. not the eye of the storm; not a peace. a dullness. a death. i don't feel success any more, not really, just the relief of one more thing done. i've lost my joy in learning, and lost my thrill in writing. i keep calling it stress, but there's a fundamental unhappiness that makes me smile at the wrong times, turns my eyes away.
i've never been here before. not really. i'm not sure what to do with this small, empty sadness. i don't know where to put it, or how to set it down.