insomniac

It's quiet here. My fingers are so cold that they hurt a bit. It makes typing and writing difficult. Ah, well.

Cardo went to bed many hours ago. Pic shuffled off to sleep two hours ago? An hour?

I've been sitting here, using up all of my ink because I'm not good at asking for anything. Rather than bother anyone, put anyone else out, I leave myself to my own devices. In this case, that entailed printing about a page every three to five minutes. Otherwise, the ink would peter out by the bottom of the page, the last few lines fuzzy and faint.

I napped earlier. I hadn't really intended to, but I was wrapped up in a quilt, my glasses resting on a corner of the couch, my book in my hand. I had meant to join Kinsey in her quest for answers about an ex's activities, but the next thing I knew I was dreaming about my older sister and her family visiting and turning the heat up to 80. I had already read a bit of Odysseus's travails and Bernard Marx's too. (I'm only reading Brave New World for the first time in my life. It's interesting and going pretty quickly. The babies in bottles thing freaks me out, but it's not as freaky to me as The Handmaid's Tale, for instance. I really need to read that again. I will be reading some more Atwood in the very near future here.) Next up, I have a bit more reading to do, hence the printing.

Things around these bloggy parts are a bit perfunctory at the moment. A casa, I'm keeping things as clean as possible and doing the minimum in cooking. I'm constantly wondering about my own mental state and how much I can handle. It'd be more if I didn't drag myself down all of the time for not being able to live up to my own impossible standards. How do you let go?

I both have a lot going on right now and, really, not that much. A lot is being held off for another few months. I'm at the dreaming and scheming stage for a few things. I live a bit in the clouds, thudding back to the earth for a bunch of hours a week, then up I go again.

I am at the point right now where I don't think I'll sleep tonight. I slept seven-and-a-half hours last night, which is more than I had planned, and then there was the two-hour nap. I'm on sleep overload right now.

Pic and I took turns napping today. While I slept, she set up a mystery for me, complete with "mysteries" (read: clues). (Think: scavenger hunt with treasure map, but certainly don't call them such.) The solution to the mystery? A step stool whose compartments were filled with toiletries, the computer mouse, the mouse pad and the National Geographic collection of disks.

I snapped at Pic yesterday. We're not connecting well lately, entirely because I'm mainly elsewhere, my thoughts far away, my mental processes filled with work. I'm tired of telling her to wait for me. I'm tired of justifying to her, all the while justifying things for myself. I never thought I'd become so different on a child entering my life. I'm grateful for what's keeping me busy, but resentful of my decision at the same time. I don't split myself that well, never have. I'm ready for Pic and me to begin something new and exciting right. freaking. now. Not months from now. These moments together, snatched away from other obligations, aren't fulfilling.

I know there's a lot going on here. A lot I'm not really ready to deal with. Except I am. I just don't want to do the work. I'm wallowing. I'm tired. I'm lucky to have these problems. I am grateful for all I have. (As Janelle Monae is singing through my speakers right now, "Whether I'm high or low, I've got to tip on the tight-rope.")