Angry Days.

Awash with not tears, but anger. Not hatred, but frustration. A difficult fortnight of sickness, anxiety and self-deprecation culminating in a fertile panic spreading violently within me. I become defensive, agitated and reclusive, instead lashing out at myself as I generate fabricated, verbal scenarios in front of me. I am mad.

I can't write. I'm a writer and I can't write. Not quite in the same sense, mind you, but I have to write something. Very important. Very, very important and I can't do it. I don't even want to do it. I hate the inevitability that surrounds it. The inevitability of it going to crop up on an exam paper in June. The inevitability of being castigated for failing to do the work. The inevitability of falling behind with the workload and having to catch up.

All of this misery will be heaped upon me in due course - inevitably.

But I don't want to blame myself this time. I want to blame someone else and that's perfectly acceptable right? And certainly to be expected. Yet, I've reached a point now where I'm too tired to argue with myself or justify anything to anyone. I'm too tired to lie and deceive and to despairingly claw for muddy excuses, it's such a hollow way to approach everything again. So what do I do?

Do I just let it be? Suck it up, take the hit, accept reprimand without mitigation. Or do I fight back? Criticise, denounce and lambaste until I've run my tank dry? Why not both? Or how about neither?

I guess this is a bit of empty blog entry now that my blood has relapsed into a steadying pace and my excessive thoughts have become overwhelmed by an oxymoronic combination of fatigue and insomnia. I mean, hell, I don't even think oxymoronic is even a word.

It is now.




Oh, and in case you feigned interest for even the minutest of seconds, I'm forcibly restraining myself with the length of these (narcissistic?) blog entries with a target range of no more than 500 words. I did originally call dibs on 450 words but then instantly broke it with my ribbon-cutter. Excellent opening. Start as you mean to go on so they say, usually with much tedium leaking through their plastic smiles.