There are so many things I could - or should - do with my evening. The shoulds include making a bit of an effort to keep up with Real Life friends - eg by reading, or responding to emails; the house is a mess; there's buttons to be sewn back on and little chores to be done.
Then there are things that fall between duty and pleasure. These include catching up with the blog reading, with which I am struggling badly. Editing a few photos. I should watch Panorama on the Hutton enquiry. But I don't want to, even though I abhor the not-knowing. I have such a backlog of photos to edit, and maybe to publish.
Maybe I'll watch the double episode of ER, but, you know I really don't feel enthusiastic about watching ER. I have books galore to read, but can I be bothered.
I have an opera that I taped ten days ago to watch, but to do it justice I will need to concentrate.
Maybe I will just go and have along soak in the bath, and then waste the rest of the evening writing the same crappy fiction thing in notebooks that I have been doing on and off for three months.
I can see the cycle developing, I've been there before. I get too obsessed, too into the crappy fiction writing thing, which isn't about being creative and literary but just an outpouring of some brain-obsession.
It's a sign of depression. Not real clinical depression, but the physical manifestations, not being bothered to do the things that matter, or the things that I enjoy.
Maybe it's the time of year, the fact that I'm not really seeing much daylight. Maybe it's poor diet - maybe I need more vitamin and fresh fruit. Maybe it's lack of sleep - it's not healthy going to bed at two and getting up at half seven. Perhaps it's lack of exercise.
But they're all contributory factors to a torpor and ennui that add up to a general feeling that I'm pissing my life away.
