  Who knew? I actually feel human. Not anxious, not manic, not lusting to tune out to control my mood. Sure, driving home from an alcohol-free dinner with the folks tonight I was having gentle hallucinations involving moving asphalt and imagined pedestrians. But I feel ok. Good even. I feel like I imagine normal folks feel. Save for the fact that today I can’t write with the same fluidity I’m used to.
Can’t get into the zone where the words pour out without consideration and still seems eloquent. As evidenced in the paper I’m trying to write for the adorable Ms. Heather. It’s too casual, lacking that detached intellectualism that I pride myself on for academic papers. Linking elements of an epic to their practical application in today’s world of war politics. A concept ripe with possibilities, but I can’t get my head around it to do it justice. So instead, I’m putting down the paper writing for the night in favour of a bit of ComCent reruns of The Man Show and Insomniac.
Turn on the heated blankie in the bed and prepare to investigate the sleep allowance of new meds. All these current events propping up in my consciousness begging me to launch on a rant, but I don’t have the time or the will to commit myself to the departure. Wait until Monday afternoon when the last silly paper is printed and out of my head. My mind is soft, and it feels great. No nervousness, no irrational worrying. The gentle disposition I’ve longed for. 
