Not first thing in the morning. Not the beginning of the week. Not the start of a month. Year. Decade. Watershed of any sort.
Explore, discover, question, create.
Ce n’est pas an inspirational meme.
The doctor says this is my problem. I’m stifled. Yesterday I looked up the dates on my prescriptions to tally up the months – no, the years now. How the past three years have slipped weirdly out of place in my mind, like vinyl over Formica. It all feels unnatural.
I wrote a book. I got excited. I got disappointed. I got slammed and then let loose. And I didn’t pick myself up.
The death that should have meant rebirth. The coming death that shouldn’t be meaningless, shouldn’t be meaningful either because trying to make sense of it, to “learn lessons”, or to put-things-in-perspective feels exploitative and wrong.
I traveled 7 thousand, 7 hundred and 27 kilometers from home and returning, dropped sprouting ideas like seeds across Europe from 42 thousand feet. Nothing remains and it’s unlikely anything took hold falling from that distance. I lack faith. I know that.
But that doesn’t mean that I can’t start looking for it now. Faith in perseverance maybe? Everything is a platitude when you need it to be something specific, right?
The snowbells are in bloom now, wedged under the dormant hedge.