A late, jumbled one

I can't sleep, I want cheese. Instead of just writing about it and keeping my eyes oscillating perhaps I will just go and eat some cheese and have a cup of tea. There are some people in the kitchen. I don't know how I feel about that. I had a most excellent day off. I made bread and did yoga and put dates in my diary and rang the General Optical Council. I had a 21 day aged steak and improvised a sauce with white wine and cream and mushrooms and it was fucking amazing. I feel so satisified by meat and fish, I feel like I am eating something I need, that I didn't know I wanted

I'm having that feeling again where I can't go to bed till I've decided something, put weight on my day, made a truth. It reminded me of those times where I would just attempt to sleep in his cold damp mildly dirty bed and have to get up, and write out all these thoughts whooshing through my head. There was no-one to listen, I had to scrawl. I threw the paper away almost immediately of course, it made no sense and was damaging to my day self, crazy lines of circular ideas.

I have memories on days off. Like my brain is trying to process things. I drank rooibos and it was 2004. I had given up sugar in my tea the previous month, I had given up caffeine for something to do. I was making chocolate victoria sponges and freezing them in halves. I was going climbing and didn't yet like bananas. I was dancing in The Cooler spying a fashion boy and one in a yellow tshirt which haunted me last or last last year. It was 2004.

I never look back at memories and feel amazed by my results. I wonder if that is pessimism, or just waiting for something to happen. I read the channel 4 talent thing, and I was inspired by taking a new path. What is it that sparks you, are experiences ever real or are the relationships you form around them the true drive? If everyone was in a vacuum, would anything else exist, would creativity spark.

I'm tired but I'm not tired. I feel lazy and indulgent on my days off, having an (awful) memory of the art-guilt kind, what a fucking waste of time that was. I layer stuff up so that jumping into the fear is made more and more difficult, and plain tasks like bread making and hand washing are so much more instant and gratifying. They require no commitment. I didn't realise until I typed it, but I really do like the freedom of Monmouth. We barely need each other, but we are integral. I could quit at a week's notice, I'd be instantly replaceable, near-instantly forgotten. A lost cog. But at the same time it is my drive and focus and stamina. Perhaps I find it too comforting, am treated too well, and give myself a false sense of future.

Oh I've broken my four paragraph rule. Whatever. I just need to keep thinking about what The Voice said, that the ideas and action will not come by the way. They take time and effort, and I must take myself into that zone, somehow. I can't see how! I'm not sure how much I already know, how much is left to learn before I can start, how I can work through it. I think I need a tea.