With no port for natural light here in the cave I couldn't know how long I slept. I woke up without any cues of morning today, as I have for the last ten days or so. I knew I had slept a bit longer - how long? What time is it? I finally guessed 8:30, then threw back the covers.

I pulled on the same socks and pants, then peeked at my watch on the makeshift cave-desk. 10:20. Wow! No wonder I feel so rested. That was almost ten hours. Into the bathroom to pee. While draining I notice the snow out the window, grrr, it snowed again. Grab my coat, step onto the porch for a smoke. It's cold again, too - not burning zero cold like yesterday but still plenty cold enough. Awake now, back inside, almost slip on the hardwood floor, woah! Grab an old dirty blanket and place it as a foot scruffer just inside the door, no point in anyone slipping and hurting themselves. Back into the cave to sit a moment, morning pages are next.

Hmm, that's odd. My eyes are closed but I see a strobe, perhaps 8 or 10 Hertz, pulsating light inside my eyelids. Pitch dark to snow blind back to dark again has triggered something in my brain, trying to adapt, underdamped servo seeking equilibrium. It doesn't seem to be abating... wait, it is settling now, first around the macula - wherever I look now the strobe is not there but it's still gently pulsing on at either side. Nothing to worry about, it's fading. But I wonder what it's telling me? Ignore the center, pay attention to the periphery, perhaps?

Writing has brought little motion this past week. I've got to relax and let it settle in from the sides. That energy is out there, away from the center. I can't go directly to it; it's not a matter of navigation, but rather of purposeful drifting.

The extra sleep felt good. I don't want to lose the sense of rhythm I've found lately, though. I want to stay connected to the world, not just here in the cave, not just here in my head. The cave is a blessing, thank you. And so is my head I suppose, thank you. But life is out there, not in here. In here is where I process, gestate, then hopefully produce tangible evidence of living.

I write, but I am not yet a writer. Or perhaps competent but not yet "good." I'll never be great, like I was at writing real-time firmware, but maybe good like I was at making records. It's not about judging myself though, perhaps let those labels go. Just reach beyond my grasp, stretch, lean out, don't worry about falling. I won't fall. And if I do, so what? I've fallen before and I'm still here. Stay connected to why, to life, to love, and write as I go. That's all.

I'm considering tartrating the citalopram. Feelings are hard to reach - or rather, feeling deeply just doesn't seem to happen with the meds. It's not a side-effect; that's not the correct category for this characteristic. It's one in the same with blocking me from the black place where time and life have little meaning except as things to be endured. Death is there, too, and I have no intention of inviting death. I'm not afraid to die, but opening the door for it is wrong. So it will be a balancing thing, reducing the dosage gradually so I don't whiplash my spirit.

I want to feel something, because no feeling no truth. I can write from my brain of course but the output is static. I want to want to fuck! I want to want to cry. I can't cry while I'm taking this stuff.

I'll meet with Dr D next Thursday to get the prescriptions re-upped, though. A phone call with her is not enough; she has to make sure I'm not manic, not suicidal, not crazy, not dead. All right. No thereapeutic value but here's your eighty bucks for fifteen minutes. A small price to pay I suppose for staying out of the hole - and everybody's got to make a living so I'll be there at 10:40 that morning. Ask me questions.

I dislike the cold but I'm out in it this afternoon. Time for some laundry and front right tire repair and emptying the last vestiges of hoarding from car to storage unit. I'll bring the notebook along.