Lately I am useless at night, which is unsettling because it was the time I was most able to weave a phrase or find a melody. I have been writing and my focus is bad. I'm blurry with the over detail of the juggling that seems to be adulthood. I write, but I'm finding myself lost within the sentences...slipping out of the intent and into the next phrase. Or the last one. Or one I'll never write. Or one that quickly surfaces and then dives deep, never fully heard or realized and never to take a shape.
But I guess I'm okay with this. I suddenly - and I mean all of a goddam sudden - have been finding inspiration. It's a hard time, but aren't they all? The inclination to turn this into something useful - if only for me - is huge.
I'm here for this. I write mostly longhand in notebooks over the last few years or so. The internet has made me private in a way. I'm willing to be looked at as long as I have some modicum of control over what you see. I want most of my thoughts to be somewhat hard to access. I mean this in two ways.
Nevertheless, I stop here to sharpen the knife. It's late. I was supposed to make a few phone calls. I no longer wish to. I will tomorrow.