Sleep deprived

It should be logic that pulls through in each and every decision that we as humans make. It should be that voice that tells you that something just isn't right which pushes you forward through the daily battles. Yet, lately, I find myself relying on an escapist creativity to make my decisions. I divulge in a vast amount of pondering on a daily basis, which has, undoubtedly, reached a level whereby I am no longer capable of controlling it. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but why, when faced with such a huge issue are we suddenly cast into this hug abyss of abstract imagery and floundering speeches? Or is it just me?

I believe my mind is trying to protect me in ways that I will only ever understand on a subconscious level. It's over protective distractions act only as a more frustrating excursion to silly truancies than having any sort of concrete effect on who I am. Whatever has happened in the past couple of months has pretty much incapable of dealing with any emotion other than sheer aggression.

Justified as it may be, I want to move past the desperation of not being able to fix this. Powerless is not something I can do easily. I am fighting with myself more than I am taking it out on anyone else, and quite frankly, I can be a fucking bitch sometimes. Physically, I am in little or no pain, but when I get going on myself over the fucking cesspit of failure that is slowly replacing what were once achievable dreams, I am killing myself slowly. Every single time I make myself look at the facts I can't help but cringe away from the fact that maybe I am not good enough, or maybe my confidence has been a little unjustified. (In some aspects anyway.)

So, faced with the prospect of maybe not being a well read author or industry changing name, what do I do? I fucking write. It is a vicious battle that I can only ever lose. I have a back up plan,yet it just seems a little dismal. Motivation just isn't an option. With such a complicated muse mixed with some complicated drama, I am a prisoner to the English language in the most unproductive way. Fucking typical, eh?

Anyway.. whine over.

PMS may have played a part in some of the depression.

I need to find a way of releasing some of the pent up frustration in a healthy way.

Back to the drawing board.