Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?

This past week I have felt rather sick. I said in my previous post that for this reason I made recourse to my books, the best of friends, but they were cold and stale, as was my music. This feeling is still there, and the oft and familiar ''heaviness'' is still in my chest - I understand now how the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain felt when they had their visits from the dark horseman (a Ringwraith) during the night, and I always assumed that ''heaviness of heart'' was just a saying. At first I blamed having spent a 39 hour week at work, way beyond my contracted hours, and being tired because of it. It is, also, depressing work - or was; to be more accurate, the nature of my new work is more mind-numbingly tedious than depressing, but when you're sick, it can be just as depressing as having to deal with the great unwashed (the general public) anyway and so there is an added lethargy and time drips and drips and drips, until it seems that every time one looks at the clock, time seems either to have halted altogether or is worse, going backwards.

This morning was no different, and I couldn't face getting up - on a Sunday too! My usual favourite day of the week! I went out in the morning, greeted a neighbour (one of the odd ones we don't actually get on well with) and he studiously ignored me. I often find this with people I try to make an effort with, but I suppose that charity requires that I continue to accept abuse in good humour. Before Mass, a friend kindly (and astutely) asked what was wrong, but I didn't actually know. I still don't completely. This last week I have been thinking about things; about academia, about Latin and my obvious ineptitude at it, about family, about Love (the unrequited stuff) and about having a piece of paper to say you did a Degree, and it all seems rather sad.

I am quite certain that most readers will be sick of these ''sob-story'' posts, but it needs to be out somehow, and to what or to whom else can I turn? I sincerely hope someone takes the trouble to read it. I know for a fact that my mother doesn't read this blog, and I oft think that she, although people may gainsay this, doesn't understand me at all, and often enough doesn't seem interested in listening to my problems. My father is much the same. Then there are friends: they exist only in books. Acquaintances; I am afraid that I don't know them enough, nor do they know me enough, for me to properly go into my problems with, even if they were interested. Psychologists? They are paid to sympathise with patients and I rather doubt that they think about their work when they go home at 5:00pm. Utterly insincere. Then comes the Confessional, and how that puts me off! I suppose the most difficult thing about Confession is getting the gumption to actually go there in the first place. Before this wasn't a problem, and was rather routine for me. I would go once a week, confess my sins, and be done with it. It was a chore, but not a terrible chore like doing the washing up (which took me literally two and a half hours this evening), and it became complacent. Then I realised something terrible and wonderful about myself and I couldn't go, out of sheer fear and shame.

Until I work this out, I am rather stuck. In the last few days, I had begun to write blog posts (one about Gollum) but gave up because I couldn't think properly, or I just thought that the inarticulate nonsense I had composed would just serve to make me look stupid. So to whom shall I turn? What patron shall I ask? People say prayer, and they are probably right, but what I really want is someone genuinely interested and sympathetic to talk to - prayer is the gift of faith, but I don't want answers from the Saints revealed in parables or some other strange, unknowable way. I need something immediate, but I doubt that such a thing exists. I suppose that I actually put more people off by writing things such as this than invite them as friends. What do readers think?

The above painting is by Ted Nasmith and depicts Treebeard, one of my favourite characters from The Lord of the Rings. I like him because he is old, grave, melancholic and plain-wise, having wisdom with years (very long years) of experience. I am also fascinated by the Ents - like Elves in their longevity and their love of growing things, but also more like unto Men since they do change (albeit slowly) with the passing years. The Ents' hunt for the Entwives is probably one of the most moving things I have ever read. Treebeard is not, of course, one of the Wise on account of his age, since there are many things that he does not know or understand, but he is very interesting all the same.