What I haven’t yet done tires me out. I am already exhausted by the things I must do tomorrow. Rather, it is the mere anticipation of having to commit myself to action that is so debilitating. I can tolerate thoughts of writing, if no one has any expectations of me, and if I have no expectations of myself. And the idea of reading isn’t too uncomfortable, though this very much depends upon the precise nature of my projected reading matter. But everything else is unbearably wearying, especially the thought of having to prepare food and having to eat it. The thought of dealing with other people, meeting them, talking with them, especially strangers, is debilitating. Any anticipation of having to sort things out, of having to move them about, of having to decide how to order them and what to keep and what to throw away, simply crushes me.
I wonder whether I have ever experienced enthusiasm in the way that I think other people experience it? Not to feel a tremendous weight of aversion for something is perhaps the best I can muster. Even though I am not every day scrubbing the floors or cleaning up filth, it seems to me that life is nothing but an endless, cheerless, numbing, exhausting chore. Would that I could have a feeling that is different from this. There is nothing I can do to effect that change in my perception. So I wait and wait, and hope for some miraculous change, a cure perhaps, that would render living something less than abominably awful.