In the absence of words to write, I've been reading them instead. It's been so long since I've inhaled a book, and so I've had to learn the process all over again. I used to be such a speedy reader, very efficient, but now I plod slowly through and it's a chore no matter how fascinating the story is. As much as I enjoy it, reading is tiresome. And the stories! I cannot sympathize with greasy Winston Smith, I cannot care about poor Margaret Lea, I cannot be bothered with volatile Jane Studdock, and it feels blasphemous to read Against All Hope without a sense of reverence.
The words are irrelevant to me. Since I cannot read and cannot write and cannot make up my mind to accomplish anything, instead I've been sitting at my computer writing a speech while revisiting those Relient K CDs I listened to 400 times, wow, was it five years ago? (I feel so old, things change and age, and I don't even noticed that it's happened.) I feel listless, but this is all I can do. I am counting the hours until May begins so I can procrastinate my novel to get my real work done. And yet I'm still afraid the words won't come back to me in time. I'm just so tired.
And these words are just farce. Words I don't mean. Words that aren't me. (Honestly, when have I cared this much for words? Only in the most obscure, sappy parts of my mind, the parts that I couldn't show to anyone even if I wanted to - no, this isn't me at all, but I can't seem to help it. I hate it, saying things I don't mean, but I can't seem to stop it.) Everyone gets tired. Everyone gets overwhelmed. Everyone loses motivation at some point. Suck it up. Get over it. Read your Bible, go to sleep, everything will be brighter in the morning.