Some people can write an entire novel in the month of November (or any month) or at least start on it. I considered writing a short story, maybe a journal entry … well, I filled in bubbles on a questionnaire with a pen today about my mental health. Does that count? It will reveal nothing new, probably. The doctor wanted to try another medication but I refused, so the generic anti-depressants dwindle away week by week. The sadness does not stop, but it also does not increase. Creating does not become any more exciting; maybe I feel a dull sense of achievement, but I felt that before. I don’t want to write anymore tonight.