Late Sunday, When It's Really Monday

I am up late, and alone, and it's dark out on the patio. I am listening to Lisa Gerrard, who people often mistake for Enya, though her voice sounds nothing like Enya's. Every time people hear something ethereal they label it "Enya", because often people don't know what they hear, and are willing to believe anything that seems familiar to their sensibilities. They don't question, and then seek answers to the questions, because they are content to bathe in ignorance. It's what they want to believe, and they accept it.

I am [          ]. Usually I am always somewhere in the middle, not sad or happy. My mind is calibrated to be calm when things are not quite what I have wished, modulating the hope of  the future and my dreams against any unpleasant current reality. Bad things pass. Good things surprise. Equilibrium.

But I am [       ], and can't put a finger on it... just sort of floating in this music. There is work in the morning. There is always work to do, inside and out of my house. My heart, my body, my apartment, my job, my state, my country, my world all need work done, and I can barely lift my head off of the floor.