Didn't sleep much, woke up shattered and permitted myself an extra 15 minutes, which, if anything, may have made things worse. Spent the first 2 hours drooping in a melancholy muffledness, forcibly insulated from the tide of idea-exchange by fatigue.
Did a little more work (but not much) on my exposé this morning. French III washed over me like a particularly cold and hateful wave. I clung to the barest rock of wakefulness, conscious of a faint strain of panic that grew in me all day.
Evening time came, and the strain of panic had taken on a life of its own. It stepped out of my subconscious and sat, flat and square upon my chest, now shifting to smother my mouth just a little. I thought of jobs, I thought of friendship, I thought of the interminable tide of research, reading and writing upon which I am but bobbing currently. My back pressed harder against the wall. Listlessly, I went to my bed, hoping this pessimism, this universal disdain would fade after a little rest. I slept, for 15 minutes if not more. It wasn't enough.
When I got up, I decided to make dinner, which took almost 40 minutes and pulled myself back to working, firmly removing my mind from forward planning and returning it only to that which is conceivable in this instant.
I am almost certain it will get the better of me anyway. I want to go to a gig on the 29th, but in this hermit state, trailing unfinished work everywhere in my wake, I fear it will not happen. This too will pass - I know it will - but the coldness, the hardness, is unnatural and almost painful.
C'est la blessure même de m'occuper de 'tout ce qu'il faut', seulement d'arriver à en faire la moindre partie... tellement j'ai envie de dire que je m'en fiche, qu'il n'y a rien d'utile, et qu'on tue en moi même l'amour de la chose, tout en me dirant qu'en faisant tout ce travail (ce qui me semble supplémentaire), cela me fera bon!
'Be glad you're not working yet,' everyone cries. Yes, that is all very well, but at least I will hopefully reach a point while working where I become sufficiently 'mechanised' so as to be no longer aware of my inner stifledness. Also, I will have time simply to exist. The joy of simply sitting, for example. Not so at the moment. I have no real wish to do the wife-and-kids thing, so I'm not going to idolise this year any more than I must.
Did a little more work (but not much) on my exposé this morning. French III washed over me like a particularly cold and hateful wave. I clung to the barest rock of wakefulness, conscious of a faint strain of panic that grew in me all day.
Evening time came, and the strain of panic had taken on a life of its own. It stepped out of my subconscious and sat, flat and square upon my chest, now shifting to smother my mouth just a little. I thought of jobs, I thought of friendship, I thought of the interminable tide of research, reading and writing upon which I am but bobbing currently. My back pressed harder against the wall. Listlessly, I went to my bed, hoping this pessimism, this universal disdain would fade after a little rest. I slept, for 15 minutes if not more. It wasn't enough.
When I got up, I decided to make dinner, which took almost 40 minutes and pulled myself back to working, firmly removing my mind from forward planning and returning it only to that which is conceivable in this instant.
I am almost certain it will get the better of me anyway. I want to go to a gig on the 29th, but in this hermit state, trailing unfinished work everywhere in my wake, I fear it will not happen. This too will pass - I know it will - but the coldness, the hardness, is unnatural and almost painful.
C'est la blessure même de m'occuper de 'tout ce qu'il faut', seulement d'arriver à en faire la moindre partie... tellement j'ai envie de dire que je m'en fiche, qu'il n'y a rien d'utile, et qu'on tue en moi même l'amour de la chose, tout en me dirant qu'en faisant tout ce travail (ce qui me semble supplémentaire), cela me fera bon!
'Be glad you're not working yet,' everyone cries. Yes, that is all very well, but at least I will hopefully reach a point while working where I become sufficiently 'mechanised' so as to be no longer aware of my inner stifledness. Also, I will have time simply to exist. The joy of simply sitting, for example. Not so at the moment. I have no real wish to do the wife-and-kids thing, so I'm not going to idolise this year any more than I must.
1 comment:
long while ago, I read a science article on how long we could go without sleep.
long while ago, I read a news article on how a Sikh businessman somewhere in the Midlands goes early to bed only to wake up early to [?]vacuum his house.
Every night I worry about falling asleep. :-)
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