I am sleepless for days now.

I can feel a heaviness seeping into my bones, and settling in. I feel it in the hesitation of my flesh, the gap between the thought and the doing. And it's not as if I'm uncertain of anything, if anyone was ever certain, it's me. Where is the centre of the world, if not in my beating heart? Of course, I could bypass this crisis. Increase my use of brandy, a few extra pipes of an evening, anything to create a craving and, thereby, a minor addiction. That could prove a useful distraction to this misery. But I am unlikely to accept that, the metonymic of need, as, finally, satisfying enough. Besides, it would be a dishonour to the soul. No, I have no choice now. I will be attentive to detail, kinder to myself. I will relent a little on the Dante, renew my bowels with Chopin, all the while sitting in the wings, awaiting the shadow of my depression to reveal itself.