Hell in a Handbasket

I don't know how I feel.
(+)Day off
(-)Reading other's journals
(+ & -) It's raining (+) and I have to walk to my bus stop (-)

I dunno... *sigh* The weather seems to be reflecting my mood.
I've got nothing to do today, and while that is, indeed, a good thing, it's also kind of limiting. So I'll lay around and daydream and read The Catholic Myth, which is the top on my stack of library books.

Think about all the things I think but never say or write down...

Tell myself I'm going to write another five pages of my story, a complaint to my government, a letter to Stephen King, some bad poetry, some smut...and sit down only to play solitaire for three hours.

Do the dishes and fantasize about what I can't have for supper.

And all the while think that there should be something better I should be doing with my life, feeling like I missed the boat and am standing on the shore desolate and alone, feeling like I would cry and scream if only I knew what was wrong with me/my life. It's like the antiChrist of deja vu, sinking serrated teeth into my soul.

I fail to see the point of this doomed experiment known as "life"; would someone like to enlighten me?