Well, here I am, with nothing of substance to write about yet again. I must qualify for some sort of world’s record for time spent without coming to a point, right?

No? I don’t qualify? There’s no such record? I’m talking to myself? Echo?

Woke up feeling intensely anxious just now, and it still has not worn off. I don’t recall having any nightmares. I think it’s something more serious, honestly.

I think my discontent with my lot in life is reaching some kind of crisis point. I am really tired of my life. I am tired of sitting in front of this computer and fucking around and wasting my life and my precious time not getting anywhere or doing anything.

Over and over again lately, I have felt an intense urge to just destroy things. Smash the keyboard across my computer monitor. Pick up my computer monitor and throw it out the window. Break everything I can get my hands on, in an act of utter inchoate rage. And all the time, I would be laughing, laughing like a madman.

Crazy, I know, and it’s not like any of this is what I consciously or rationally want to do. I just have this deep primal frustration building up inside of me, and I need to learn to vent it some way without doing harm.

I am a caged animal, in a cage of my own devising, but no less binding for it. I have a great deal of energy simmering below the surface of my carefully content free, low stimulation, low energy lifestyle, and it is coming to a boil, and I am the one in the pot.

I am particularly worried because I have noticed myself spending more and more time in bed without even being sleepy. I just stay there because I am so sick of my life that even the prospect of sitting down in front of this trusty old computer nauseates me. What, again? Gee, more time spent fucking around playing Flash games and chatting with people and reading webcomics? Oh, joy of freaking joy.

I think I am outgrowing my current life, and in the process, growing far too big for the cage I am living in, and the animal inside me wants out.

So it’s no wonder it wants to smash, crush, kill, and destroy everything it associates with the cage. Something greater than the sad little thing I have been is growing inside me, and it is growing very impatient with waiting to be let out and is starting to seriously consider gnawing on the bars of its cage.

It’s the sort of thing I have been fearing for a while, that my personal growth would be blocked by my stunted personality and this would setup a tension that can only end in a radical and uncontrolled transformation of personality when the structure of my psyche can no longer restrain the growing force within, and so it bursts like an overladen dam and floods the countryside.

The thought of such violence and chaos terrifies me, but part of me says “Meh. At least then it would be over. ”

It is hardly like me (or so I’d like to think) to just let catastrophe happen and pick up the pieces later, but I feel like I have no choice. It has truly come to this. It is rigidity of personality versus the intense dissatisfaction that breeds change, that longs for transformation. It would be nice if it could have gone a different way, one of gradual and peaceful and planned and coordinated change, but I don’t see it happening.

Sooner or later, something is going to go pop.

I can only hope that it is a benign transformation as opposed to a destructive one. A spiritual transformation where I become a stronger, more together, more active, more whole person, as opposed to something where I become impatient, apathetic, hedonistic, manipulative, mocking, sarcastic, and dismissive.

I can honestly say I feel both of those possibilities within me these days.

What I am hoping for out of all this potential mayhem is to find out that my plan of finding a way to simply write all the damn time and keep those internal fires banked down is quite feasible. I am trying to concentrate on how much calmer and more content I am when I am writing, even when it’s just low-energy writing like the stream of consciousness shit I am doing right now. And how when I am not writing, just doing other things on the computer, I am bored and restless and discontent.

All this is to fight the strong current of dysthymic depression that says “less effort is always better” and “doing less is always safer than doing more”. Always minimizing effort, to the point of being practically sessile, is a long-ingrained habit stemming from the truth and/or belief of having low energy, and thus having to invest it very frugally.

Personally, I wonder if the real problem is that activity makes you anxious, not tired, and dysthymic depression comes from a habit of living your entire life in such a way as to avoid the feared anxiety by remaining as still and as calm as possible. The third response, not fight or flight but “hide”.

Anyhow, if I concentrate on how much better it is to be writing than to be doing more or less anything else in my sad little low income life, perhaps I can convince myself to just write all day, all the time.

It would be better than sleeping my life away, that’s for sure.

Of course, in order for that to happen, I would need some kind of writing project that could absorb all that writing. And I certainly don’t feel the need to just go for quantity again. I did a million words in eleven months, I did a whole book in a month, that kind of thing is done, done, done like dinner.

So I guess I will either start another book, or maybe finally get around to making that parody type magazine I have been talking about forever.

Either way, it beats blowing up and going psycho or having a breakdown or some shit.

Change can be good. I need to remember that.