Four in the Morning

It is 3 in the morning, that magic time of night, and still no pages typed. There has got to be a name for this feeling in a language somewhere--love/hate comes close in the English language, but it is not about love or hate. A band I liked a long time ago wrote a song about this feeling and called it 'Stuttering.' That fits better, as frustration is connotated. I desire and am reluctant to fulfill this desire at the same time, emotions in a dialectic. This reluctance is not due to laziness or inability. From where does it come?

I want to write my thesis, at least sum up to what I have devoted a year's worth of study if not churn out a thesis worthy of French Art History (those capitalizations are in the name of the department itself, as it is 'l'histoire de l'art', not 'l'histoire d'art' or 'l'histoire des arts', as it very well could have been). And at the same time, my body betrays me. I don't do it, don't want to. This is not what I am here for, I know now.

What I wish I were doing instead:
-exploring the Catacombs of Paris
-making my apartment into my home, where everything has a place and everything works
-planning my vacation