by way of the woolly mammoth

Concentration seems to be as elusive as the mountain yeti, or the fabled three-toed sloth. A sense of jittery anticipation is prevalent and all I really want to do is scream, yelp, shout or simply yell at the top of my lungs, anything to get rid of the bundle of tense lumps that seem to have taken up residence in my lower stomach. So much for the captivation of multitasking, that too has evaporated in a cloud if steam, its tendrils wafting up to the ceiling where it now clings. Its demeanour cheeky and mocking, as it gathers itself and congeals into great droplets of attentiveness, waiting to fall on someone else’s head and grace them with the ability to get work done today.

The taste of defeat, one which I do not swallow well, gathers like bile in the back of my throat and the whispers of muses who have skittered on taunt me, ‘better to pack everything up and head home, back to the warmth bed and hearth’ they say. ‘Much better to hide under the covers, then try and concentrate’ they add.

I have never been able to explain why this is so, why moments of jitteriness assault my moods allowing for no real work, thought or motivation to do said work. They are there, and as such maybe they are also an excuse when I no longer want to work or am bored with the topic at hand. But other days it seems that this feeling manifests itself when I am overwhelmed, when I do not have confidence or the belief that I can actually accomplish what I have undertaken. And no matter what I do it hangs overhead, a black cloud, feeding the sense of futility and inadequacy that bubbles from within. And with it the desire to be proactive slinks out the door, tail held firmly between its legs.