Writer’s block

Whenever I decide it’s time to sit and write I just cannot seem to accomplish the task. Writing is one of my passions, except lately, I haven’t had any god damned passion for it. I always thought it’d be great to be paid to write, to write for a living. However, I think once something becomes a job (=work) , it isn’t rewarding anymore. So here I sit on my striped Ikea couch-bed, with my min pin sleeping in the small space between my back and the couch pillows.

My mind has been dull lately, I think due to my meds. When I do not take meds, my brain is zooming through the atmosphere and I am unable to focus or to sleep. Then I take my prescribed meds-as prescribed -(which I tend not to do) and life slows down. Too much. There are times when I am on the prescribed amount of mood stifling magic candy that I can sleep like a champ. I can stay in bed for a solid 10 or 12 hours.  And then I face another problem: my brain energy is null. Navigating the space in between is the toughest part for moi. Finding the balance so that I may live a full, productive life is the goal.

Hello cruel world.

Last night, I set in motion one of my existential crises, wondering what “it” was all about. I hate when that happens. Nothing makes sense and the more I try to figure it out the more I want to put a hole through the wall or my head. Is anything really definite in this world?  The only thing we know for sure… is there are no absolutes.