I don't really want to scream.

I don't really want to scream.

It's like… a silent weight in stark monochrome. A blanket thrown over everything in an old black and white movie flickering on failing film. A segue in Hitchcock's “Rope”: zoom into black then out in one continuous motion.

I'm okay. Writing is cheaper than therapy. Though I pay for that, too. Double dipping. I'm tired (copy, paste) and I need low sensory surroundings to get by but get by I will. It's a good day for a minor mental breakdown. It's sunny, the end of winter, the wind is cool and strong. I am nothing if not appreciative of the outside world.

I still need a job but, lesson learnt, interviews cause damage. Even when they're not bad, they're not good for me. I am a flare up waiting to happen. So I need to work on that, support myself, get myself through. Vitamins and sleep, tea and herbal thoughts and prayers.

And a very firm middle finger to capitalism.