***I've been wrestling with writer's block now for... perhaps nearly a fortnight? Since I got back home, anyway, although daily scribblings in my notebook about how we did this that and the other hardly count as holiday writing.***
It's morning, Saturday. The throes of a deep sleep still hold onto me and even with my glasses on, it's hard to see the screen. To my left, I can see that I didn't bother to close the curtains all the way. A thin sliver of bright light peeps in. And I am still in my clothes, from last night. This how I can tell that I needed to sleep so badly. I needed to relax.
I can hear the dull whirring of my pedestal fan but it's hardly stirring the air. Perhaps it's because in the night all my blankets migrated to the end of the bed and formed a barrier that the cool air could not break through. Some nights I move the fan close to the bed so that this cannot happen, but not last night. I wonder what my hair looks like.
There are three things I can safely assume about the day: One, that it will be hot. Two, that everyone will be home or at least around. Three, that today I will feel restless.
It's how I've felt the past two days. It's been strange. Boredom has nearly brought me to tears. I'm finding no pleasure in reading or watching movies. I tried baking. I tried seeing my friends. That, at least, was fun for a while. Then they had to go, to work, to see their significant others, to their lives. So it was back to being restless.
I am restless, because now that my novel is effectively 'finished' (for it will never be done, it will always be imperfect to me) I am emptier than empty, I am dryer than dry, and I am boreder than bored.
So bored that I post freewriting on my blog and inflict my boredom on all of you.