Weary, Stale, Flat, and Unprofitable

O God, God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
~ Hamlet I.ii. 132-134.
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There's sun this afternoon, but the greyness I woke up to better suited my mood.  I can't shake this bone deep sadness. Everything seems totally useless.  As always, Hamlet says it better than I can.

I wish I could just put my dogs in my car and drive until there was no more road left.  Maybe somewhere along the way, there would be something to take it all away.  Maybe if I drove fast enough, I could leave it behind, chasing after me like an old dog snapping at my rear wheels.

Or maybe I will just sink into Istanbul, dissolve there, turn into a section of a golden-tiled mosaic.  I feel as old, as trapped, as fragile, as unreal as any Byzantine wall.  Maybe if I was frozen there, then this feeling currently gnashing its pointed teeth on my soul would no longer be able to rip me apart.

They say as you get older, wisdom and perspective are supposed to come.  I wish that a lessening of feeling came with it, too.  I wish my heart was marble, cold, hard, and unalterable, requiring the strike of a hammer and a chisel to harm it.  As it stands, it's too easily damaged, too easily hurt.