A empty house. Mismatched schedules. Perpetual non reward. The house doesn't care if I've had a hard day, if I got told off for weeing too many times, that I had that 'I;m listening to myself talk and I sound stupid' moment a gazillion times, that I'm worried I have an infection. The house doesn't care about my reality, and it makes me feel homeless. Home is where the heart is, mine is shriveled, I'd say say sitting back into my stomach slightly. It's nowhere near my brain, and the work feels physically and mentally difficult.
If there was a Wikipedia entry for 'Stress arms', it would also say "see 'Vodka arms' and 'Caffeine arms'
"The failure of a human or animal to respond appropriately to emotional or physical threats to the organism, whether actual or imagined."
This project has become a symbol of my inability. It has grown into an opposite meaning to that which it exists. It isn't provoking creativity, but stillness and fear. This post is very dull but I'm just trying to get writing out. Bluh.