See, something that I've theorised is that I don't sleep enough because daily life holds no significant challenges yet doesn't allow me to exercise my brain in any meaningful way other things. In other words, they enforce boredom. This leads to a state in which I need to think, to process interesting/intelligent things and tax the old grey matter even if I am wrong about them and the result is crap. The important thing is the mental exercise. That I can get this done sometimes by writing is a happy side effect.
Despite the lack of sleep I'm always better in a morning where I've written something. Of course, this is because I can sleep, rather than lying awake in bed thinking through random shite. That's the worst, lying there with no sensory input running through random fantasies for what seems like hours until opening my eyes to find that less than ten minutes have passed. This is a reasonably common occurrence and I have a feeling it's going to start again tonight. It's too muggy here to think straight at all, especially in this loft room where the heat has gone from "oppressive" to "insane". Hard to think when even with window open and fan full on the first thought is how much sweat is streaming from your frame.
Yeah. This is just me wanking some to allay the hollow feeling that I've wasted a night, even though in advance I know it won't work. I think I need a fucking cigarette and bugger the flashbacks.
: And comments on fiction, of course.