I can’t do it.
I simply can’t do it anymore.
I have just nailed another book together, simply because the story I was finishing didn’t have anything to say anymore. I could add more drama and fill in some new resolutions, but it would only be word-procrastination, written diarrhea. 1610 words for today and this is my towel (at least I know where it is, small Hitchhikers Guide pun there). I have completely broken down at 78820 words total. Who the hell was I kidding, thinking I could run 100.000 words in one month? What was I thinking? I am not even sure I am going to publish this crap, because it simply is that: crap!
Oh yeah, depression hit me in the face big-time.
Let me first just crawl under my rock and I’ll see you all when I come out again.
– Partial repost added here on depression –
Right now nothing seem to matter in my mind. I feel empty, drained, longing to sleep while I can’t.
I keep thinking that after everything, the writing I have done over the last few weeks. I should be happy, but I’m not. I just want to crawl into a hole and hibernate until I wake when everything is better. And when I say hibernate I mean die, and when I say die I don’t mean I am suicidal, I just mean that I don’t want to feel this way.
There is still so much to do, so much I can do. But nothing flows from my fingers as my body feels achy and pained. I can’t even type decently as my fingers feel more like talons, crooked and warped.
But I do recognize this rock I have hidden myself under for now and I have dubbed it ‘afterglow depression’. I think I have been here before and I hope it won’t last. At times like this I can’t remember ever having been happy.
Oh well… As they say: ‘This too shall pass’… I hope. And until then there is ibuprofin ointment for my aching joints and alcohol for my aching mind.