Lately I've been struck by the wrinkling in my hands, how the skin near the knuckles folds over itself without springing back.
More startling are the eyelids and how when I draw my finger across them, the skin bunches like a wet towel, and pauses. Why spring back when it's easier not to?
My skin sprouts spots, tags, and occasional whiskers I can feel growing, spiraling from my chin.
I write with a purple glitter pen. It glides smoothly leaving lines that sparkle with the reflection of the gray sky.
I've been gloomy since Thanksgiving when returning to my regular routine forced me to confront my ambivalence about my work.
I've been taking long walks and reading novels from the little free library.
I haven't bothered to figure out how to set up my new computer.
I don't feel like buying Christmas presents.
Yesterday, I had to hold myself back from weeping at the sweetest little piano performances by tiny children whose feet didn't yet touch the floor.
I know it will pass.
I remind myself to sit with it, to be okay with it.
I drink coffee in Adam's kitchen. We talk about work and how there is something about the Believer that he doesn't get either, though he too enjoys it as a physical object.
I get gloomy when I read the interview with Miranda July not because I am unhappy with her achievements, but rather I am disappointed in mine.
I sit to write with the intention of being as honest as I can. I try not to scratch out every word.