I spend the day moping around, partly because I’m angry at my stupidity and disappointed with not going away, partly because now the fatigue has caught up with me it’s not letting me go. So I spend a lot of the day asleep, and when I’m awake I don’t do anything noteworthy – I try to practise, but can’t even hold the guitar without feeling overwhelmed.
As I’m walking down the corridor, the bookshelf, which has been threatening to collapse for a very long time, finally relinquishes its hold on verticality and falls to the floor, depositing a large pile of books in the corridor. I don’t have enough energy to fix the shelf, just enough to put some of the books into boxes and clear enough of a space so that I’m not, at least, stepping on them.
Yes, I know, pathetic. I make a note, though, to try to remember that though such inactivity seems inexcusable in retrospect, in the grips of a torpor such that I’m currently experiencing it’s inevitable.