Work. That’s all I feel like I do. Work. Toil. Plod. Struggle. Grind up hill and watch the boulder bear back down upon me.
For a few nights I brought spreadsheets home only to save some creeping insanity. Sometimes you just have to bring the tools of your destruction home and face them. Full on immersion, kind of like bathing in your enemies blood and coming out stronger on the other side encrusted with dried corpuscles, only with Excel. Encrusted with dried cells and formulae.
The truth is I’m just burned out. I can feel the funk of endlessly facing the same shit different day blues. I know it’s called a job for a reason, but I’m getting tired of feeling worked over. Maybe, when a whole lot of shit linked to the approaching year end, and I’ll feel my chipper self again. Or maybe, it won’t. Right now, I can’t tell.
So, for now, I’m writing very little, I’m performing not at all and I’m sleeping on the couch, weary when the sun sets.
Tomorrow, I’m going to hope for a little more energy.