I remember when I responded to fatigue with a kind of mania. Productivity kicked in at 4 a.m. and I could pick inspiration from out the air.
Now it just makes me tired.
For whatever reason, I didn’t end up in bed ’til 5 a.m. Sunday morning, and then rose like a corpse to get breakfast less than four hours later. Instead of inspiration, I had this free-floating zen sense of detachment. It was nice, but instead of feeling unlocked and slaphappy like the lack of sleep used to bring out in me, I was content to lie on the couch for 95% of the day.
That used to be the state of mind guaranteed to put me in the mind to write. Now I don’t know where my head has to be.
Or maybe that’s the wrong way to think about it. I should be forcing myself to write regardless of what my stupid brain wants to do. This is difficult.