I have been wondering if I'm having some sort of breakdown. About 7 months ago I started a journal, when I was temporarily out of a job. It was mainly about the stories I was in the middle of writing, and the books I was reading; but lately it's been about how weird everything has become. Right now I'm in a job that wears me out, and I'm too tired to write. And I took a look at the stories I wrote during the year and am surprised at how just a few months ago I actually thought they were good--that they were the best things I'd ever done. Either my judgement is shot, or my mood is affecting my ability to see things clearly.Since my birthday I've been mulling a lot over years gone by, especially my childhood, although I know that brooding is a waste of time. I've been wondering whether my life has been worthwhile. Whether all those years were worth it. Whether I ever did anything at all that meant anything. And I don't have an answer. I haven't written the books I once thought I would--when I was younger. And now I can't write even stories. Or look at my own handwriting. In the journal I write upside-down and in capitals, from right to left. To do that you have to concentrate letter by letter and then word by word; it cuts out the self-indulgence.Right now I'm stuck in Sydney and thinking about returning to London even for a few weeks. To wander around Europe. Having a job is driving me nuts; I can't figure how I've tolerated the mind-numbing idiocy of a workplace and co-workers and office politics and gossip for years. I need to win the lottery, there's a $25 million "lotto" coming up here next Saturday.Did have an idea for a story yesterday and I know the last sentence, but not how it gets there.