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This is what it could look like when one completely deconstructs a life as one knows it, and how to build from the ground up. Alternatively, this is a fresh look at an old story. The fine art of falling apart.

Diary of a mad insomniac

Sometimes, there are no exits. Or they are blocked off in such a way that you, as the person needing to escape, could not get through.

Everywhere I am, I look for the exits. It's rare I find one that fits me, so to speak. Thus, I am usually stuck in a jam doing something I don't want to, or in a conversation that bores me to sleep (which, in retrospect given my insomniac tendancies, may not be such a bad thing).

It's been a good couple of weeks. My new methods seem to be doing the trick. It will be interesting to see (if) how well I'll sleep when I'm back at work full time next week. In case you didn't read the last entry, I'm returning to the sort of Social Work I have a lot of experience in. I'm a social worker, and sometimes I get things done. At the end of this week, I'll be at the local women's shelter, volunteering with some crisis intervention sessions for the women staying there.

It's always easier to do for someone else, than it is for yourself, I find.

I was thinking about changing the name of this journal to the subject title. My current title is The Fine Art of Falling Apart. I admire Mattie in his daily struggle to keep breathing and perservering and at the time I started this new blog, I had completely fallen apart and thought it an apt title.

Decisions, decisions. I would just like for things to be easy for once, you know? I want to write like I used to. Off the cuff, sweet romanticising of 24 hour supermarkets and my humour. I miss my humour, you know?

I used to be funny.

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