I give up, really. Maybe I was made to do this. More and more I think so. I do it well. I should have been doing it all along. I'll do other things, too, but I won't struggle with this any more. A duck in water. A pig in shit. Whichever. That is up to you. I'm not questioning it any more.
Last night I went to bed early. Exhausted. I think I was sick Monday, though I thought it was simply that I was dying. I think that a lot now. I felt so badly that I turned off the lights, shut my office door, and crawled under my desk and went to sleep. I felt better yesterday, the first day of Spring, and with little demanding doing, I took to my bed early. I dreamt and turned and had a very active sleep, then woke up ready for morning. It was 11:30. This is awful, I thought. And I was right. I did not get much sleep last night.
It must have been the Spring faeries playing their games with me.
If only. It is, of course, the other thing, the dreaded thing. Fill in the blank. Surely others must have it. And all it needs is a light for the night. That is what I have now as I write long before sunrise, long before your day begins. The cat, of course, ever ready, lies upon my feet licking my shin and grooming her fur. She is glad for me to be up. She is happy.
I think back on yesterday, what I once referred to as The Carnal Equinox, and realize that I didn't have a conversation worth repeating.
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