It’s the end of March. Less than three weeks now (by one day) till the tortured poets. Four more months to August. It feels like spring in certain breaths, the freshly rained scent in the air, the damp pavement, little buds slowly opening on trees on my walk to work.
This week has been one of melancholy. I miss you in all the little moments of the day. I want to show you pictures of Jenny, curled up so close to me. I want to stay up late, talking about everything. I want to hear your thoughts, not someone else’s.
Recently I read Annie Bot, by Sierra Greer. It’s about a robot who becomes, well, she becomes essentially. Some parts of it were so frustrating. So many similarities between being a robot and being a woman, and none of them are the good. But her curiosity, her interest in things made my brain spark. That feels like a rare thing these days, and I hate it. I want the spark and I want the follow-through.
I feel like I’m existing in a small blurry cloud with all my senses dialed slightly down. Perhaps this is just how I will experience things now. Still irritated by the screaming kids, still pausing to take pictures of the moon through tree branches. Still eager to start a new book. Just none of it is is completely there. 79%, that feels about right.
When I think of August, it fills me with quiet, aching despair. How does time keep on moving?
I still haven’t finished The Lost Story.