I ought to feel proud of myself today; I worked hard at work, I came home and worked hard at writing. I’ve been staring at this screen on and off for the past six hours and I’ve accomplished a few fairly big things. But I feel further away from relaxed than I ever imagined possible under the circumstances. I’ve had several glasses of smooth, cheap red wine in the hopes that my nerves might settle (how very quaint, says a little voice in my head), but it only seems to have agitated me. I feel like my fingers could write a novel all by themselves this evening; they’re certainly not going to stay still for the next few hours. I can’t imagine my usual tactic (bath, a dull book) easing my over-active mind tonight. It isn’t even anxiety, though that’s always mixed in with the things I feel; it’s energy, of a strange and disturbing kind. I keep clicking the wrong things on my computer, my toes are tapping. I’m blinking more rapidly than I think I usually do (or am I imagining that?). Once I was convinced that a bug was crawling up my back, and then I began to imagine that it wasn’t a bug but a tiny mouse that had crawled over the back of my chair and was now making its way past my lower back, and I actually checked to make sure this wasn’t the case.
Hours slide by unnoticed, tonight. The darkness fell over the garden right in front of my eyes; yet I couldn’t help myself thinking, just now, how sudden it seems to have become night, how late it is, how fast the time moves. I can’t decide how I feel: if I’m hungry or not, thirsty or not, tired or over-excited. I can’t decide if I feel confident or desperate, if I’m inspired or jealous, if I want to solicit praise or wait for it, if I even want praise or if I want a slap from reality. Then again, it’s an upside-down evening, so maybe it’s only fitting that I’m feeling a bit upside-down myself.