I used to write with reasonable prolificacy; a level of creative output that is enviable to me now, unimaginable even. I sit here for the first time in a good while; certainly the last time I wrote anything with the intention of posting it on the Internet was the day before the referendum result was announced — anything else with novelistic pretensions also died-off soon after. I haven’t written anything worthwhile for a good four months I’d say: my life is poorer for it. I’ve been enduring some real bleak moments of late: thoughts of dark make-up revolve around my head almost constantly; poisoning my will; corrupting hopeful day-dreams of the future. I find myself contemplating these negative preoccupations like an atheist admiring the ruins of an abbey. I know simply that if I am to salvage my sanity I must first resurrect my dreams if I can have any faith in the future. That’s easier said than done when you currently have as much enthusiasm for life as the average nihilist. But to reap, first I must sow —so that means writing again; more; all the time . Also I need to stop the self-destruction; the booze, et al. If I am to change the way I’ve been feeling of late, then I must change who I am.
Lord help me.