It seems like my intellectual capacity has dried up to the point is almost hard and desiccated. I wonder if there is a chance of its continued survival.
Mostly all I feel is tired of late. It is not really that I am working that much harder. I do the same things I did when my beloved was away at work all day. It is not the fact that he is recovering from surgery and unable to help that bothers me, it does not. I do no more than before. But why do I grow impatient with the constant repetition, the constant little requests, the reordering of my day again and again? I am not frazzled, swamped or otherwise overwhelmed. I enjoy the time we spend together. And yet there seems to be no time for my own pursuits. I have sewn nothing. I steal small snatches of time to pursue a little knitting, but not enough time and little progress is made. I haven’t read a thing. The reading materials pile up higher and higher. Even finding time for exercise seems difficult. I get started and am interrupted; the time steals away and the impetus is gone. When I find a few moments to spare I desire nothing more than sleep, although even my attempts at sneaking off for naps are interrupted. I should not need them. I am not getting that much less sleep than usual; naps should be unnecessary.
What is the source of this ennui?
Last night I was up for a few hours in the middle of the night and I spent the time reading. I picked up The Omnivore’s Dilemma, which I had abandoned a month ago, when life got crazy all of a sudden, and I truly enjoyed reading it. Lost in the words on the page I blissfully passed a couple of hours until I realized that I was dead tired and was having trouble keeping my eyes open and my head upright. I went to sleep immediately after Michael Pollan had killed his boar and was disgusted with the necessary process of slaughter. You would think this image would keep me awake, but it did not. I had pleasant dreams of the rituals of food, and sharing memories with people one cares about. I woke up refreshed many hours later.
And why, during another day, with endless tasks stretching out before me do I feel so exhausted again, unable to read, unable to knit, unable to sew, wanting only to curl up in a little ball and sleep, sleep, sleep.