Dark.

Very, very dark.
Ive been getting better, I think. Im actually motivated to do things. I want to clean my house again, I want to move again, and eat healthfully. And its not just wanting, its actually moving into practice, which is a huge thing.

But at the same time, I havent left the house in almost 2 weeks, and I keep making excuses not to. Its easy enough to do. Its not that it scares me, its just that I dont like it. Its fake, and hard, and if I could avoid people for the rest of my life, I think I would.

Its that, and my writing that tells me how deeply depressed I still am. I wrote three little "blurbs" this morning. Most of my characters seem to be going through identity crisis of some kind. I suppose its just where I am. But I dont like it. I dont like this dark wondering and feeling of being trapped in a mental darkness that I cant escape.

One muse, wants to know who she is, one, wants contact, and one wants not just pleasure, but joy.
One, that I didnt "blurb" for, and should have, just wants his identity back.
Similer as the first, but not really.

Reality is getting ugly again.