I confess, I'm struggling a little with the fatigue at the moment. The pains and the weariness are one thing. I can deal with them, it's simply a matter of indulging it only to a point and slowly but surely reasserting myself over them until I'm back up to normal service.
What's harder to deal with is the how it gives my inner demons a chance to stick the boot in. It's very easy to find yourself walking the black dog. I never feel particularly lonely until he comes sniffing around, I have plenty of cherished friends, just none I think particularly close. I have no idea if it's normal to contemplate this but when skirting the depths of self-indulgent depression I find myself wondering how many of the people I count as friends would consider themselves close enough to attend my funeral. Yeah, that's messed up. Let us not go there.
The title quote is pretty much the answer, although as I'm not a Victorian fictional master detective, I seek no mysteries or intrigues. Just good reads, idle chatter and such like things to distract me from the navel gazing. I tend to pick up new hobbies or return to old ones around these times in order to distract myself.
On that note, I picked up a cake decorating book the other day. Up to now I've done my cakes pretty much out of my own head, googling for demo videos and tips as necessary.
Then I found this. Oh dear. Now my head is filled with dreams of towering, beautifully sculpted confections. I desperately want to give shape to the inspirations it's fueled. To the point that I was even beginning to convince myself that it was reasonable to make one of them just to test recipes and techniques before it counts. I mean, is this the behaviour of a sane woman?
I think we all know the answer to that question.
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