Early hours.

I’m feeling so inspired tonight. Which is a narcissistic, egomaniacal, self-centred, pseudo-intellectual bunch of crap. Not if you’re a real artist, like a big painter or musician or actor or something. If you’re someone like me, I mean. “Oh dear me, blimey, I’m so entirely encompassed by inspiration tonight, it’s utterly impossible to ignore, it’s seeping through my pores and filling the atmosphere!”.  What a moron.

Regardless. I’m inspired tonight. Trouble is, except the aforementioned, that I don’t know what the hell it is exactly I’m inspired about, or what the hell it is I’m inspired to bloody do. So I pace back and forth, unable to stop, unable to channel this energy, wasting time, feeling uneasy like I want to pee and there’s no toilet in sight. I don’t feel like talking to anyone, because I’m not in any position to put it into words, let alone attempt to explain what my problem is. I don’t feel like reading or baking or trying on 100 different outfits, or sleeping or running, because I deem all those activities unworthy of channelling my energy into.