I am exhausted.

Not tired from doing things. Not lethargic from not doing things. In fact, no matter what, all the time, I am tired, irritable, demanding and verging on a breakdown.

It's like what I ran out of was tolerance and faith, not just energy.

As always, our idyllic vacation was half perfection and half the bowels of hell.

A moonlit walk along the thames, kissing as Big Ben struck and it's shadow glimmered in the black water. Whispering and poking fun and the pretentious art in the Tate Modern. Holding hands under the table at the kitch tapas place. Disecting greek tragedy as an art form. It was a respite from real life and a minute of blissful togetherness.

But it was also truly horrid. I don't think we have ever gone anywhere and didn't fight about something stupid. It's ridiculous really. The angry logical discussions and selfish proclamations. It always hurts after to think we have been so stupid. And this time more so, for it's lack of novelty.

We're crawling out of the hole. It is never the end of the world. But I still feel bruised.