It is 2:35am. I must have said this before, but why do I always write these so late at night? I have been working desperately hard, lately. There is so much I want to do with my life but it is difficult trying to find the time, but in a few days I will be travelling out to Portugal, which will offer a welcome break from all my creative projects. Even with the summerish weather breathing on my windows, I spend most days coiled up in front of my PC, working. I just want to make something of myself and actualise my aspirations.
I understand my quenchless need to achieve things stems from those two years where I was near housebound because of my illnesses. I would spend days inside and only left when I really needed to. It was torturous. My OCD was so bad I wouldn’t even touch my curtains because they had been too close to the outside world. I thought everything was a threat to my life, I thought I was on the cusp of either death or a suffering so extreme I would rather be dead. When so much energy was poured into avoiding danger, my body just couldn’t spare a drop for any other facet of my life and my creativity ran dry completely. Because of this, I refuse to ever let myself rest now. I am making up for something, I think.
I am so tired, I am struggling to finish writing. Goodnight.