this racing pace is a snail's wail through the dale's dew

[seryn]

This is so stupid. It's 3:30 in the morning. I can't sleep. I've got sleeping pills, but it's too late to take one now. (They take 2 hours or so to kick in, then last 7-9 hours during which I cannot wake up. The warnings should include one about not drinking a full glass of water.)

I've got stuff I should be doing, but I've been reading fic and watching Dirk Gently (it showed up on Amazon Prime, I'd not known it existed.) So it's not that I've upset myself.

I went outside today and walked a decent amount.

There's even been a sort of rebound from the nadir, as long as I don't look at a list of insurmountable chores, I don't even feel that overwhelmed. (Really I try not to think about what needs doing and just do a tiny piece of it at a time.) It still all seems utterly pointless, but as long as everything seems pointless, I might as well do the stuff that shows. Which, wow, I'm not sure motivation gets any lower than that without being negative.

I feel tired. My eyes are dry and creaky, but I can't stop my mind's pacing.

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing. — Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)