That’s what I’ve been doing.
Not looking after myself.
I’ve had long blank months where I could have written that novel/children’s story/poetry/comedy script/blog.
And yet I do nothing.
The more I feel I *should* do something constructive, the more useless I feel.
I might thrash and splutter a bit, but not so much you’d notice.
My head barely struggles through another meaninglessly fluid day.
And when people tell me (when I tell me) I *should* be making the most of this, this most precious time, it’s like taking in another lungful of water.
I’ve hit an iceberg.
I’m drifting, sinking.
I am going down into darkness.
All hands on deck.
Waiting for a lifeboat.