as predicted

i spent this afternoon on a 13th century castle in the glorious golden sunlight catching glimpses of yesterday's happiness, which also had to do with being saturated in history and golden glowing suns, but i could not hold on to it. it is something for which i will be ever searching and that i'm not sure i'd know what to do with if i could find it, anyway. maybe happiness is just not something that some people are meant to have. certainly it is in the searching that the best writing comes, in that yearning, drive and ambition and desire. i would like to just imagine that happiness is singularly boring, and that we only truly find ourselves in the search. who the fuck knows. maybe i am just making excuses for throwing up tomorrow. 

i hope you all are surviving christmas. it's such a strange time. january will be like a salty sea wind on the face and neck after spending half a day crammed in a car.