February 18th

So tomorrow is old Ellington's funeral. I can't get that out of my head. Ellen came the other day after reading my "perfectly lovely little thing" and invited me to the funeral. She looked so downcast and in need of encouragement that I said I would love to-which was true, if only for her sake. She left looking so happy but I think she left her depression behind-with me. I sat down at my desk with a sigh and good ol' Scottie came over and asked me what was wrong. I replied that I was just depressed for n0 reason. With a wry smile, he said, "Does the source happen to start with an "E"?" I smiled back, then picked up an assignment, signaling that our conversation was now over and that I didn't want to talk. He looked like he was about to argue, then grinned towards the wall behind me and walked back to his desk against the wall opposite me. I looked behind me of course, and saw nothing. I frowned and turned back to my work. I had to get my work done.

Ten minutes later, I sighed and grabbed my coat. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't think. All I saw was Ellen's hopeful face and the feeling that her depression had been thrown onto me. I walked outside, craving fresh air. As I opened the door, a biting frost hit my face. I gulped in the fresh air, getting momentary relief from the depression. I glanced across the street toward the grocery, wishing I had someone with me who could cheer my mood. I sighed and glanced down the street. At 11am, there was a good amount of traffic but the noise seemed somewhat muted. I couldn't shake off the feeling of depression. I felt like I was drowning, suffocating, smothering, under the desolation of...I don't know what (I'm still depressed, hence my writing at two in the morning. I'm going to be exhausted tomorrow).

Anyway, Rob didn't come out to meet me. For some reason I was disappointed. Maybe it's because I'm a hermit? Because I don't have any friends but him and Scottie? Because I never see my old friends from Hamville anymore? Maybe because I only socialize with professional writers that race to the top and don't speak to me? Maybe because I think about dead people all day and need alive-people contact?

Great. Now I'm all wound up; I can't possibly go to sleep after that.

Is this the price of success? Feeling depressed and all alone, without friends?

Maybe I'll talk to Rosie tomorrow...she's always been able to cheer me up.