What frustrates me right now is not so much that I open this canvas and
sit here, paint in hand, but without a pciture to paint, but that there
have been many scenes in my mind worth painting since last I picked up a
brush, and they now lie by the wayside, unattainable - victims of my
flimsy memory and general loafing about.  

After many nights of depression-induced fear of . . . something, which had
me questioning my relationship with Sarah, I find myself now with the
realization that she is a joy to be with, that I do care deeply for her,
and that I am willing to expose my gentler, more delicate side to her;
peeling back, for a moment, a rigidly-constructed shell of sarcasm and
apathy.  

This is a lovely occurrance.  

Work goes well, despite difficulties concentrating, whose fault I place
somewhat in the hands of the effects of the typical onset of an SSRI into
the human system.  I hope and anticipate that it shall self-resolve by
petering out in the next week.