I’m feeling oddly gloomy today. I can’t explain quite why. But I am making attempts to adjust that mood – it’s just isn’t happening.
I sort of feel like I’m looking for an answer or an inspiration. I’ve identified a handful of books that I’m sure will help. In fact – I realised I have books on my shelp, some favourites and some as yet unread, which would also help. I want to read them. But I just can’t. I can’t bring myself to hold the book and turn the pages – let alone follow the lines and make sense of the words.
I sort of feel like I’m missing some of the things that reward and offer me a cathartic outlet.
I want to blog – but even as I type I think it’s worthless and confused and really not that interesting. The scraps of brain fluff from Rachel’s head in a whiney Eeyore tone.
I want to draw. But I can’t do it. I think of things to try, I move the pen and it’s just awful.
I want to paint. But, aside from the physical effort of organising materials and space to enable me to do so, I have no idea what to paint. And I know that painting without a clue leaves me with a mess and a saddened heart. Plus the idea of moving the brush back and forth – well I love the movement of the paint and colour – but the physical action of moving my hand and arm that much … well I know at this stage my muscles will let me down.
So it’s just not happening.
I’m not even going to get into wanting fresh air and to see the outside world, to have fun, see people I love and do a whole list of other stuff. A whole ist of stuff which is so smal and innocent – but so out of reach.
Now I’m just moaning. I’m frustrated for sure. But it’s simmering as self loathing for not being able to do things. Hence the gloominess.