The title of this entry is how I’m feeling, like something’s wrong.

Part of it is me noticing I am recently prone to intense fits of pique accompanied by self-righteousness and indignation. Who am I to feel indignant? When did I rise above scrutiny?

It reminds me of my teenage years when my temper was brittle as a jilted lover’s ego. These flare-ups are motivated, no doubt, by the writing (which is going well), the loneliness (which because it is going well is part of the problem), and the overwork (which is ending).

This is uninspired writing, I know.

Another tributary of this river of self-dissatisfaction is that every judgement I make bears nothing so squarely as my complete ignorance. My incomprehension is like crosshairs on my forehead. Having rendered judgement with no claim to understanding, I am ashamed.