Anyone else wanting to just preemptively call it and hibernate for the rest of the year?
All I have are my words. And for a lot of time this year I have found myself without them — which has been particularly jarring.
I am inexplicably busy these days. Busy with myself. Busy practicing. Busy with a silence that interests only me. It touches too deeply for me to explain further.
For a long while I was sick. Sick with a nostalgia for a life that was out there, plump and ripe for the picking and yet although I had chosen it, claimed it; it had yet to return the favor. I was watching life, and I wanted to be a part of it, but found it painfully difficult. I wept until I aged myself. I turned to the mirror and I don’t look how I feel anymore.