A couple of days ago I found myself reanimated. It seemed that I had come across a literary device for a story. I was hopeful. I haven't written anything of any significance in several years. But, now, after having spent hours looking into establishing depth for plot points and characters, I've found the entire "project" to be abject crap.

I tried putting that disillusionment aside by looking for a job. Found one where I have the qualifications and don't think it'd make me so miserable that I'd be shoved into grievous mental discomfort. It's an almost two-hour commute. Driving four hours a day, five days a week. That's not happening. It seems like I'm just making excuses by not considering other jobs where I have experience, but when I visualize myself at those jobs I immediately feel the frustration of subjecting myself to their nauseating tediousness boil into depressing distress as if I'm already working there.

I really just want to cry. It seems like all of my life's undertakings have been nothing but fool's errands.