waging a war against myself lately. I say, "Why aren't you writing?" then pound out journal paragraphs on my laptop. I see an old woman when I look in the mirror. I'm not ready to be her, so I won't be her. I have poems that need writing and revising, friends' words I want to read so that I can comment in a helpful way.
the urge to sleep has been greater than the urge to write or to do anything, really.
I'll see my way to wakefulness soon. Exercise will help if I can only work through aching joints and motivational problems. Who do I live for?
That's the stupidest question I've ever asked. Also, I ended that sentence/question with a preposition. No gold star for me.
My daughter will be home from school soon. Or she will text me and tell me she is going off to do something with someone before she comes home. No, I am wrong about that last bit. She just walked in the back door.
So. Without proofing, I will post this and hope no one reads. Or hope someone reads and sees something that matters to them.
Something in you matters to something/someone in me.