I'm in a strange sort of funk today: a sort of floating listlessness. Nothing interests me, I can't focus or pay attention, the poems and songs I like don't please, and on top of that I'm completely drained.
This is problematic because, for me, tiredness is something I have to earn. I've done very little productive work this week (though I suppose it's only Tuesday): finished a novel, critiqued a few essays, the bare minimum to maintain appearances in class. Otherwise, I've gone out a lot since last Thursday, and that's not an excuse for being tired, especially when some of my friends are working 40 hours a week on top of school or are involved in a dozen time-consuming extracurriculars.
I think on some level this is an exaggerated response to certain feelings that are entirely routine for me. As an aspiring writer, my self-confidence wavers periodically: times when I think I have nothing to tell and no skills to do it if I did. There's a personal essay for class that needs revision, but starting it has felt like pulling teeth because I sense I'm forcing a story where none exists, and that begs the question whether or not I have anything worth telling at all. It feels fake. Then my poetry translation project makes me wonder if I have any penchant for poetry or if I'm only fooling myself, and reading the works of published, well-established writers only depresses me. (Though I wouldn't call what I have depression. It's really a lack of any type of emotion.)
I know I'll go to bed and wake up feeling fine in the morning, but for right now I just don't want to do or think about anything.