Okay, here’s the thing: I’m tired. Not emotionally exhausted or anything like that, just good old-fashioned, can-hardly-stay-awake tired. And I’ve been like it for about a week now. I’m eating well, getting exercise, not particularly stressed about anything, and don’t feel any lurking illnesses. So it’s prolly cos the temperature is hovering around forty degrees every day now, and when I’m not outside in searing degrees, I’m inside in air-conditioned air.
It’s weird though, because last night, I was still awake at 2 am, thinking to myself, just as I had been for the last four hours, ‘I wish I was asleep, why aren’t I asleep, all day long all I’ve wanted to do is sleep, and now I’ve got the chance and all I’m doing is thinking about sleeping.
The upshot of all this tiredness being that the short story which must soon be finished is still in the muddling stage and appears to be nothing more than a collection of words gathered together on one page for no apparent reason (despite that day when I had moment after moment of insight and clarity and couldn’t have been more sure that this short story was deftly-plotted, perfectly-paced, and oh-my-goodness so witty).