Nov 16, 2009

Desperately seeking Morpheus

Oh God. I need to sleep. I can't remember the last time I had a restful night. Has it been days? Weeks? Too long. My nerves are shot, the bitchiness factor is at an all-time high and it's all I can do to keep myself from painting the world in a thick layer of black acrylic.

And why am I unable to drop into a peaceful slumber? Well, the book isn't helping. Every night I write and rewrite chapters which I will have forgotten or discarded by sunrise. Words words words. It's enough to drive anyone insane, even if you're not the prince of a small rotten country. And then there's that tumultuous heart of mine, which cries in pain and confusion and demands attention every time I try to close my eyes and forget it's there.

So I stay awake. Night after night. Slowly losing my sanity.

Will someone please take me out of my misery and come bash me over the head with something heavy? (I've always been partial to the cartoonish charm of the frying pan, myself.)


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