.
I have been hanging on. Barely. It is 14:34, and bedtime. I
have pushed as far, hard, and well as I may. No extra meal, no more
gaming, very little of anything. All good. I don't hurt, I am just
so very tired. I have been since... eight or nine this morning. A
good haul, if you look at it right.
You know you are tired when your mind is numb. When writing is a
conscious effort, in the mind as well as of flesh. I have to think it
all through, it isn't just happening, as it mostly does. A very strange
phenomena. Imagine if everything you went to ponder, in your mind, you
had to work out. There is no flow. The imagination isn't
working. So, if you want to imagine, closing a door, it is more like
reading about it. The mind just doesn't create pictures, moving or
otherwise. That is how it is.
Of course, being that tired is... not a bad thing. I suspect rest will
be... indulgent, deep, quiet. Not that I am dying, but it will be a bit
like death. Ah, but you probably don't know what that means. You
have never had it so quiet, so dark, that nothing touches you? At least
it isn't cold, that is the difference. I am sleeping well, comfortably,
lately. If deeply, darkly.
Something is off, but that is okay. Something has been off for the last
thirty... it started in '87... so... thirty five years now, is it?
Wow. I was 21, when that happened. That's a lot of time in a
shadow, of sorts. Anyway, I've had worse.
