Restless. That's how I described my mood to my boyfriend last night. I'm making an effort to use less dramatic speech, or I might have chosen a different word. Like "standing on the precipice of a spiritual and emotional breakdown, the only thing keeping me from plunging headlong into total chaos being the single-minded pursuit of buttery carbs* and Netflix."
While peach scones and Game of Thrones are delicious distractions, they do nothing to address the growing feelings of restlessness and discontent that on good days give me headaches, and on bad days (staring at the final credits, the last crumbs) fill me with an uncanny combination of dread and panic.
I know I need to write more. Scratch that, I need to write, period. When I'm not expressing myself, I feel crazy, trapped inside my own head. Why avoid it, then? It's painful, like working out after a long winter of complete idleness.
This doesn't feel good, this incomplete blog post. But it's something on the page instead of on my chest. Maybe it will help alleviate this morning's headache, or maybe it will make the next post easier. The problem is n absence of passion, and perhaps I'll broach that topic later.
*I cannot recommend Bang Bang Pie's honey pie enough. And Julius Meinl has surprisingly good scones.
