It was just one of those days.
I hadn't wanted to admit it this morning, fought through my annoyance at being up early, inability to feel at peace with my clothing, and chronic tardiness (though ironically, our group meeting had been pushed back, so I was actually a half an hour early). I even hit a bright patch in the middle of the day when the sun was out and I got an hour off of class because of some department assessment that, as a foreign exchange student, I did not have to partake in. I strolled around, was thwarted at one ATM but found another, wandered through the "Micro-finance Refugee craft fair," hoping, though failing, to find presents for some friends.
And as the ominous dark clouds rolled in, I headed back into class, only to be reminded of the all-encompassing frustration that comes from not being able to communicate, from having my identity as an intelligent, eloquent person be absolutely stripped away.
It's been raining for the past couple of hours now. Not pouring, not drizzling, just lightly raining. It's the kind of day I became accustomed to in Ireland. A dark day, in which every hour feels like nightfall with a constant, seemingly inconspicuous rain that, even after it stops, still drips and tinks and plops no matter how far inside you may be. The kind of noise that is inconsequential when you are busy and productive but nothing less than a dull roar when you have nothing else to do but stare outside. It was the kind of day without an appetite, the idea of hunger is completely foreign, but once you start eating, you can't seem to want to stop.
The Hours was playing in the dark living room when I came home. I watched it while I ate my lunch, which was appropriately unappetizing. The pork chop was mostly fat, which sat in a rejected pile on the edge of my plate, and the mashed potatoes had lumped and congealed sullenly.
It was a day for funerals. It was a day for cradling your head in your arms and staring at nothing for far too long.