I am tired.
I broke mother’s crystal white sugar dish on Sunday. She didn’t say anything about it, so I sat in the unsettling silence wondering how it was that I had had single-handedly managed to break through half of her china and glassware.
Then I broke the fancy office jug. After sweeping the entire kitchenette floor with damp sheets of newspaper to rid it of the little bits of glass that had been missed by the broom, and getting black ink all over my palms, I decided that I would take time to write and vent. I was feeling pretty irritable and unlucky.
As my colleagues locked up and asked me over and over whether I really wanted to be left all alone, I had felt a surge of energy. I would probably type an entire chapter in the comfort of a bar stool at the marble kitchen table.
Right after 3 whole forced lines, my brain went dry.
I am tired. I sometimes take on too much, and it is finally eating away at me. I cannot write anymore, I have very little energy for anything, and I fantasize more about sleep than I do yoghurt with fruity bits or crunchies – which is a big deal, by the way.
Worse still, I am moody, drifty and morbidly afraid that I will not manage to do everything that I had planned to before the close of the year.
I just got tired of blogging too. So I’m out.