GhostandMachine

Last night I was struck with an awful insomnia. I couldn't understand what was happening other than a general anxiety. Sure, there are a lot of reasons I could have had that intense anxiety that nothing that usually calmed me down would work. One of which was if I did everything I needed to at work to ensure that the openers would have a good start. My manager tends to get on my ass a lot if I do xyz wrong but because abc was done right it doesn't get noticed because how would you tell? So seeing the manager tomorrow makes me full of nerves.

I don't know. Things were weird last night. I did some reading, I played games, I watched videos, I scrolled. Eventually I took some melatonin, which is my last ditch effort to sleep and played more of a game for another hour before the added sleepiness kicked in and I could try getting some sleep. Of course, that didn't last long because I kept waking up every so often. I have no idea why I was like this. It doesn't happen often, but when it hits, it hits.

I desire creativity. The force that pulled me through my youth and gave me dreams. Spilling words onto the page has not come to me as easy now as it did then. My mind cannot see what scenes once developed. I cannot hear the voices of my characters nor truly bring them to life.

My hopes for a different occupation have fled into the night.

Even this feels forced and unnatural. Words strung together trying to find meaning, attempting to be thoughtful. I cannot even extend the metaphors as much as I would like. How could I make it sound real? What do I need to do for my words to resonate with myself once again?

I want to write again and to write well. I want to make worlds and the people within them. I wish to follow the stories and bring forth vibrant landscapes.

The craft is ever slipping me by the more I stay still, yearning for it. I know action is necessary. I know this and yet I find myself pausing at every opportunity.