It's a mix of the ongoing Sleep Wars and the ascending Seasonal Affective Disorder, and various Real Life Dramaz that leaves me feeling so utterly grumbly and spent. I am an affectionate drunk but I'm a horrifyingly whiny tired.
"And you stop wanting to make love
Because there is no love left in you
Only a desire to be done.
But you are not done.
Your bags are packed and you are travelling."
These are some of my favourite lines of poetry in the world and they describe precisely this - the point which lies beyond exhaustion - the knife edge between endurance and regret. When all love and joy is spent and the only thing you want is to be erased, packed up. Put into a cryosleep or unexisted for a while. But there is no stopping. No big reboot. Only another breath and another step forward. And then another and another.
I'm struggling to write. My journal is all half-written, half-coherent private entries. My words are deserters. They are faint of heart. They are in hibernation.
But for the month of November - as I attempt to drag myself into another NaBloPoMo - I have placed a moratorium on self-judgement and adherence to standards of clarity and narrative flow, which I'm sure we all look forward to. So I invite you to engage with me in an elaborate suspension of disbelief while I upload photos and do-over various bits of half-finished October posts, and then put them up here pretending they are still relevant and topical and you promise not to call my bluff too loudly.