09062025

The days have started to bleed together in a fragile, viscous sludge, of mottled greys and other pallid hues. I was actually able to get some work done today despite this, but by evening, I was already well down the spiral of a fatal funnel of feckless, frustrated dejectedness, and as the night progressed I only found myself becoming further and further seized by that awful despair. I don’t understand how things can turn around so quickly. I’m pretty sure just last week at this time, I was terribly optimistic and full of inspiration about the possibility that I could turn things around. Where did all that go, that it feels little more now than a receding, distant memory? And further, what hope do I have at all then if I am so easily defeated by even the most trivial of setbacks? Everything I’ve experienced these past few years has just confirmed, again and again, in increasingly obvious ways, that my interiority has been reduced to a flimsy, tattered scrim. Nothing catches that holds. I don’t feel like I’m able to actualise anything. I don’t feel like I am capable of anything. What remaining talents I do still possess are not really mine, but vestiges of an earlier self who still believed in things and wanted things and expected more of this life. But I can’t do anything with any of that. I can’t do anything at all.