All is not well...

I sigh.

So deeply I sigh.

I fear I may have overestimated my capacity of literary invention. I bit off a lot more than I could chew when I decided to partake in this year's NaNoWriMo. And it isn't merely lack of story and vocabulary that keeps me from writing; there's just too much too do in my private life.

So much that I sometimes wonder where will this land me, but in some unfrequent private moment of reflection I look back on the tumultous events and realise nothing has changed, nothing much has changed.

A year back, I was a grumpy miserable unkept gloomy shadow of human existence *, and now I feel as if I could hardly be happier (well, most of the time I do) but still I'm worrying and worrying and worrying and right now I honestly don't know why. If there is a why.

I conclude saying; all is not well, but most things are.

* this might be slight exagerated