I'm sitting on the edge of my chair. My right leg is nervously shaking. I wonder why, because I'm not nervous. It must be some kind of subconscious habit. Although it doesn't happen too often. Or perhaps I am nervous. About the deadline moving closer, about the work load that I still have to deal with, about the responsibility that comes along with it? Maybe, yes. I might be nervous.
I stare at the screen with tired eyes. Whenever I blink they hesitate to open again. Why, because all they reveal is this messy situation I got myself into. I love writing and I hate it so much at the same time. What am I doing here? I used to be amitious about this stuff. Has it become work, a duty, one of those things on my list that I have to cross off? Perhaps, yes. That could be it.
My mind is drifting. I try to catch my thoughts, but they're moving too fast, slipping through the cognitive claws inside my head. I'm thinking about tricks that I want to learn, lines that I want to film, places I want to go. I'm thinking about travelling, about London, Paris, Barcelona, things I want to see and buy. I'm tired. Too tired to comprehend that I should stop trying to understand.