doldrums

Frozen, apparently, on writing this article.  Facing the chasm that must be crossed, by yielding to the inevitable.  It's not that I need to be miserable to produce my best work - I'm over that particular fallacy.  Merely that in working there is suffering.  I love what I do, but in order to do it, most times, I must shut down so many other parts of myself.  On Bloomsday, no less, when the call of the Guinness is strong(er).  Played hooky yesterday, after dropping off blood-relatives at the airport at a god-awful early hour.  "Too tired to work," I thought, said, enacted.  But tomorrow ("tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow / creeps in this petty pace from day to day / To the last syllable of recorded time."), I said, tomorrow I shall work.  Well, I'm here, at work, so the muse knows where to find me, as it were, but she's AWOL, and I'm tired (not authentically, but tired at the idea of the tiredness that shall be required to do this.)  Whinge. Bitch. Moan.  Both of my readers may well recognise this tone....