I should be writing. I should create something, but I lack the emotional energy. I should rest and get it back, but I have too much physical energy.
My mind is disposed to organize something, but I can take no pleasure in it. I need to find some way to rest, but as I cannot enjoy myself, it's hard to know what to do.
There is a temptation to go and do unpleasant things, so I won't have to do them instead of being happy, later. But I've been doing that, and it still wears me down. Perhaps adding to this journal will help. I can only hope.
Existentialism washes over me. I need to stop reading Camus. I need to stop thinking this way. I ought to loose myself in some pleasure, any pleasure, but I can't stop weighing the joy and watching myself, and hoping I'll feel something more. I'm so desperate to be consumed with feeling that I can't actually feel very much at all.