I've settled into a mind-numbing routine not of my own choice, and I've noticed that not only has it deprived me of decent sleep and free time, but it's left me with little I feel like journaling about.

So this is a journal entry about not being able to journal.

Now I have an inkling of how some of the real writers who frequent Journalscape feel when they think they should be writing but also feel like nothing is coming out.

Luckily, I don't depend on this for a living, or else I'd be eating bulk-package ramen from a werehouse store.

Some of it is self-censorship; I think I may have said too much about my personal life in the past few months, and I've got some personal dramas going on which I don't feel like detailing right now in more than the most opaque ways. I'm not at all even to the point where emotionally I can put together a coherant sentence about it, except to admit that I can't.

And since I've had little time to be in contact with the outside world, there's not been the chance to even find interesting minutia to relay. Just a bland, gray world of repetition.

You know it's bad when you actually look forward to the free moment to toss spoiled food out of your refridgerator. Seriously, I'm looking forward to it.

I guess it wouldn't bother me as much, but it's not just journaling that is affected. Pretty much I have nothing remotely interesting to talk to anyone about. It's like a few weeks ago my life stopped and went into a holding pattern.

It'll all work itself out eventually. Maybe good, maybe bad, most likely in the middle, but in the mean time....