"and watch it through to sunrise"

I sometimes wonder if I'd get more comments if I posted in the morning, but since I write these entries at work, or in my head on the walk home from work, it would feel more-artifical-than-it-already-is to post them the next morning.

Weird, exhausting dreams these days and I feel like I'm always waking up in the middle of them.

I'm smoking in my dreams, keeping a pack in the car, but I'm not smoking all the time, only occasionally, when I want to. Hair seems to be coming up a lot as well, running the gamut from dining on a plate full of hair (which was perfectly normal in dreamcontext) only to find it full of thin wires (which was not) to having my boss talk to me about having had it come to her attention that I do not shave my legs often or thoroughly enough. And I feel I'm always sitting down to a meal with people from my past, people who don't like me and people, who if I was more secure, I would admit that I, too, do not like. These conversations are pleasant, unawkward and invariably interrupted by something.

If I was a different person, there's a chance I'd find deeper meaning in these, that the flotsam my brain throws up at night has something more than exhaustion, funerals and migraine medication behind it.

I'm hungry for human contact again, but always in the theoretical. Planning something, seeing someone, means that I have to smile and leave the house and do more than read, and knit and play WoW and sleep, and that seems beyond my capabilities. It feels more like mono than depression right now, but I could be wrong.

Work makes me want to cry all the time now, and demands more overtime than I feel equipped to give, and in the end, the reason I'm not going to Disneyland with my inlaws is not because my boss has said no, but because my boss has said accomplish this amount of things and you can, and this amount is an insurmountable goal, without pushing myself harder.

I used to work all this overtime, some combination of hating the rest of my life, needing the money, and genuinely feeling like I was helping someone or accomplishing something. I don't need the money, I don't hate the rest of my life, and I certainly don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything. Instead, I feel like I'm balancing on a pile of sticks, and as time passes, the sticks I'm balancing on are taken out from underneath me and added to the load that I'm carrying, so I'm simultaneously less stable and under more pressure all at once. And I know nothing will change until I fracture or fail, no matter how much I try to say that I am about to fracture or fail, because other things and people require more immediate attention.

We talk about moving, still, as it becomes more and more likely that both Junkyard and Media might find themselves on the eastern end of this state. And I know I should force the change, rather than wait for circumstance to do it for me, or give myself a deadline, though I've passed through so many self-dictated deadlines already, when they dangle carrots of more money or more interesting things to do in front of me, but the money never materializes and more interesting work is actually just more work, and often less interesting to boot.

In other news, I'm buying Saint ten pounds of gummi for her birthday, and I need to find a box in which to send Media his blood-peeps and an envelope to send someone else his/her/its surprise. I should be getting my first book from bookmooch next week, and I'm making my first non-dessert recipe ever from Gourmet Magazine this week. I see Jeffrey Foucault this weekend, and the backgammon case is a perfect size for an Iron Horse table.

Things crumble around the edges, but I've got a good enough grip and a solid enough foundation that nothing falls apart. It's a version of a victory, the rest will follow someday.

"and watch it through to sunrise"

I sometimes wonder if I'd get more comments if I posted in the morning, but since I write these entries at work, or in my head on the walk home from work, it would feel more-artifical-than-it-already-is to post them the next morning.

Weird, exhausting dreams these days and I feel like I'm always waking up in the middle of them.

I'm smoking in my dreams, keeping a pack in the car, but I'm not smoking all the time, only occasionally, when I want to. Hair seems to be coming up a lot as well, running the gamut from dining on a plate full of hair (which was perfectly normal in dreamcontext) only to find it full of thin wires (which was not) to having my boss talk to me about having had it come to her attention that I do not shave my legs often or thoroughly enough. And I feel I'm always sitting down to a meal with people from my past, people who don't like me and people, who if I was more secure, I would admit that I, too, do not like. These conversations are pleasant, unawkward and invariably interrupted by something.

If I was a different person, there's a chance I'd find deeper meaning in these, that the flotsam my brain throws up at night has something more than exhaustion, funerals and migraine medication behind it.

I'm hungry for human contact again, but always in the theoretical. Planning something, seeing someone, means that I have to smile and leave the house and do more than read, and knit and play WoW and sleep, and that seems beyond my capabilities. It feels more like mono than depression right now, but I could be wrong.

Work makes me want to cry all the time now, and demands more overtime than I feel equipped to give, and in the end, the reason I'm not going to Disneyland with my inlaws is not because my boss has said no, but because my boss has said accomplish this amount of things and you can, and this amount is an insurmountable goal, without pushing myself harder.

I used to work all this overtime, some combination of hating the rest of my life, needing the money, and genuinely feeling like I was helping someone or accomplishing something. I don't need the money, I don't hate the rest of my life, and I certainly don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything. Instead, I feel like I'm balancing on a pile of sticks, and as time passes, the sticks I'm balancing on are taken out from underneath me and added to the load that I'm carrying, so I'm simultaneously less stable and under more pressure all at once. And I know nothing will change until I fracture or fail, no matter how much I try to say that I am about to fracture or fail, because other things and people require more immediate attention.

We talk about moving, still, as it becomes more and more likely that both Junkyard and Media might find themselves on the eastern end of this state. And I know I should force the change, rather than wait for circumstance to do it for me, or give myself a deadline, though I've passed through so many self-dictated deadlines already, when they dangle carrots of more money or more interesting things to do in front of me, but the money never materializes and more interesting work is actually just more work, and often less interesting to boot.

In other news, I'm buying Saint ten pounds of gummi for her birthday, and I need to find a box in which to send Media his blood-peeps and an envelope to send someone else his/her/its surprise. I should be getting my first book from bookmooch next week, and I'm making my first non-dessert recipe ever from Gourmet Magazine this week. I see Jeffrey Foucault this weekend, and the backgammon case is a perfect size for an Iron Horse table.

Things crumble around the edges, but I've got a good enough grip and a solid enough foundation that nothing falls apart. It's a version of a victory, the rest will follow someday.