I don’t know what’s been wrong with me, what is still probably wrong with me, and what has kept me from writing all this time. I do know, however, that I’m ready to think about it.
For longer than I can plot, I’ve felt a recurring fatigue, a sort of listlessness. It’s often not obvious – I don’t yawn every time I open my mouth, and I can still smile and laugh – but it’s there, always. I’m just quite good at hiding it.
I’ve felt that the world costs too much energy. The daily barrage of bomb scares and political faux pas, it’s just so exhausting not screaming every time they appear. Every step along the same old morning commute, every muffled cough on the train, the Big Issue salesman on the street corner, the e-mails, the conversations, the haunting sense of waste which lingers even when I fill my weekends to bursting with panic-fuelled social activities… it’s knackering.
I don’t have an answer to this, right now. But I think that’s okay. Looking back over this blog, I always seem eager to plug any holes in the boat, without really getting to the bottom of why they’re there. I’m just desperate not to sink, so think if I keep myself busy, they’ll fix themselves. But (as any psychology student can tritely tell you) anxiety isn’t a sustainable motivator. It needs to be something more, something happier – more comfortable, less frantic.
|Redraft one poem (for pub.)||Redraft Literature Review (MA)|
|Finalise Japan plans
Create savings chart
|Review Nat. Archive Latin tutorials 1-5|
|Make any c. writing notes in diary.|
|Read criticism for each text I read.|