5:19 a.m. and I am dead tired but cannot sleep. I know most people do not need sleep in the way I do - I crawled into bed at 1:30 a.m. What shall I say? The poems seem dead in me now - yesterday I wrote a crappy one in the laundromat which was so bad it embarrassed me. I wrote it out of desperation to write poetry, not any need as in the past.
I woke up with ashes in my mouth because i realized I am too tired and weary to write and I doubt I have the talent or will anyway. Maybe by writing this my black mood will pass. Wild thoughts go through my head about cobbling together menial jobs to pay bills as clearly I will not have time or energy to write. Yet here I am writing. I guess I will have to write, but without hope or expectation, no big plans, no vision, just words spinning out of control in my mind and spilling onto this screen.
What a sorry, miserable way to live. I wish I were an accountant, with my life arranged in neat rows and balanced spread sheets.
Hmmm. This is the first decent thing I have written in aeons.