Typing on my phone and intermittently staring at the gentle glow of a candle on my ceiling.
I haven’t had a single good night of sleep this week. My body hurts and I’m exhausted. I haven’t written in a week. Somehow, I’ve felt too distracted or just too tired. There was a day or two this week where I felt too love struck and electric with sweetness and sentiment to concentrate, so that was pretty cool. I am allowing myself to gently fall in love for the second time ever. Turns out moving not at a frantic-trying-to-fill-the-void-with-whoever-is-around pace is real nice.
I keep telling myself I’m going to do some more work on this book. I’m going to start work on an outline for the film project a friend and I started discussing this week. I’m real excited about that project, and not just because it’s an excuse to travel to Florida to get out of our respective Cascadian and Canadian winter climates.
I sit down and start to write and the exhaustion of the distraction just take me the fuck down. I end up just going to bed. Once I’m in bed, I stare at the ceiling.
I think about lost loves, friends, snd enemies. People I miss.People I don’t miss. I think about the terror loose in the world. I feel a deep and dark sense of dread thinking of a friend who is currently in serious legal trouble. I think about racism, about cops, about war, about this culture devouring itself at a suicide-pace. I think about mommas and poppas trying to raise their babies on a burning hellworld, that could break them.
Nothing ever breaks my heart, but goddamn is it bruised sometimes.