Somewhere in the middle of the night, the black steamrolled me.

It may have started with a series of disturbing dreams. I was with a group, a class of sorts, and a woman poured coffee onto my computer keyboard as a joke. I cleaned it up as other actions began. Then, in dream fashion, I was vacuuming dry autumn leaves up in the living room with my father…what…? Then I sat on a sofa to rest, and felt a force trying to lift me up from the sofa and move me…. I decided to let it. It took me across the room and set me on the floor.

A cat puking on my chair and demanding let out at 4:15 AM disrupted the dreams and may have contributed to my black mood.

Stepping in the puke could have been a catalyst to further darkness.

Writing in my head as I returned to sleep became a slamfest. Self-esteem drained out as my inner critic took over. “That stuff you’re writing is unimaginative, weak and turgid. That crap you published is a disease to humanity. Chuck it all. Find a useful hobby. Knitting, or water painting. Take up baking. Don’t write, please, for all that’s bright and beautiful in the world, don’t write.”

Sleep was recalcitrant after that, telling me, “I don’t want to get anywhere near you, with that mood coming up. I’m reading the signs, and a bad storm is rising.”

This black is a greatest hits compilation. Low self-esteem, depression, weariness, anger, irritation, resentment, then another cover of depression.

‘It’s okay not to always write,’ I read in another blog.

Maybe I’ll take the day off. Either that, or open any vein, and see what comes out.