I am stressed and I can hardly concentrate. I drink a little bit more than I would like to because all of my muscles are tense. It is a little too much.
So, I have failed to write about my trip. If I had readers, I would feel awful. Though, I am disappointed that I failed to capture with words my impressions of Dublin and Paris properly. The way they deserve to be captured.
I am worried that I am going crazy, not mental illness crazy, but completely out of sorts. I have a diagnosis of insomnia and general anxiety disorder. I am sure my job is not fit for someone is prone for panic attacks. Having anxieties plus residual masculinity creates odd outcomes.
I cannot really express it because that would require distance that I don’t have. I can only say odd outcomes.
I am really tired all the time. My mind is not wholly and entirely working the way I am accustomed to. My personal madness is that I grow resentful easily. So I am tired and resentful. A certain malady of the too proud and petty people.
It is not really wit I am aiming for, but a certain frankness. I would like to see myself earnestly, but it is naive to think that would save me from a certain cruelty that only a person can do themself.
I am not altogether petty; it is an effect of my non-malady madness. Basically my stress is making me foolish. I am an angry fool.
The wise fool knows things that reason cannot penetrate. An angry fool is just stupid. Stupid in the way that is not ignorant because one knows better. So an angry fool could hardly be an example of knowledge. If one is trapped in being a angry fool, it does not give an example to others- they can easily fall into that trap!
I write these odd things as entertainment for myself and maybe others. If a stranger comes across the these writings I hope it provides entertainment. However, I am sloppy and being stressed adds little to the clarity. I can lie and call it poetry. But I am no poet. I love sentences.
However it is like an album being strewn together. It may be a dud.
The blog thing bothers me little. It is the proper stories. If I am a caffeinated Xanaxed stressed mess, with little focus how can I make my stories? It actually bothers me a lot and has been weighing me down. I have them all in my head. I have drafts and some with editor notes but it is really rough going.
I am not really putting the effort in to my job. I try but it is not working. My subconscious prevents me from helping people. My body rejects the front of the store. My ring toe, for some reason, has a sharp pain at the bottom. Work is wearing me out.
I guess being honest doesn’t help the situation. It doesn’t make it worse. It just is.