Sometime in the night, I rose from my bed and typed – leaving my crazy behind a blinking cursor for me to find when the Sunday sun finally roused me.

I used to love waking up to the words that came in the night – these days, they reveal more of my angst. I suppose there is good in that, my subconscious acknowledgment of my conscious self may be therapeutic in some sense – if nothing else, it tells me I may need my meds tweaked.

I’m tired, so very very tired. Tired of every day, tired of night, and tired of the in-between. Tired of hurts, so much of me hurts. My heart, (sometimes). My mind, my body, me.

I can’t seem to wake up, not enough to form proper thoughts, not in the way they ought to be thought. Not enough to remember to do the things that need to be done. Only awake enough to wonder “What was I meant to do today? Did I accomplish what I was supposed to yesterday?” Ha.

Awake enough to know I didn’t. Awake enough to think of the ones I let down by not following through – by not waking up enough to  . . . do . . . whatever I was meant to have done.

It’s crazy, I may be crazy, going a little more mad every day.

Unless I am pouring pieces of myself onto a page I seem to lose them, misplace them, leave them somewhere and forget how to find them again. I think I’m leaving the wrong pieces on the pages I keep scribbling with words and words and words . . . I may be leaving the wrong pieces.

I think I am a little lost, not completely, not just yet. I was going to leave a trail of breadcrumbs but I forgot. No matter, the monsters that shadow me would surely gobble them up like they do my thoughts, the important ones anyway. They leave the nonsensical ones, the unimportant ones – the scary ones for me.

Not much sustenance, just enough to allow me to survive.

People should stop listening to me. Stop counting on me and expecting me do what I say and know what I mean when it sounds like I do, because I don’t think I do anymore.

But  . . . wait. Maybe tomorrow I will – so please, if it isn’t already too late – maybe don’t give up on me, not just yet because I’m good at making promises and some of them I remember to keep and all of them I intend to and I think you remember a time when I did, minus the procrastinations and the delays I’ve always been guilty of . . . I am tired and rambling and just never-mind. I forgot what I was trying to say.

Again.